


Derry summers and you

by SeaMint



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bill lives in cali, But more on that later, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Summer, Texting, bill denbrough being a dumbass that's for fuckin sure, i guess, idk what else to tag this as, pennywise is a local myth, the others live in derry, they're lesbians harold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:57:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 50,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13593477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaMint/pseuds/SeaMint
Summary: For Bill Denbrough, summertime would always be painting by his bedroom window, tank tops and short shorts (or at least the shortest shorts he owns), the warm wind slapping his face that would cause him to surrender back to his room.But then they became stupid two-day trips to stupid Derry, making stupid friends and drawing stupid portraits of the boy across the street.Through made-up adventures and the feelings only Derry can bring, he falls in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiyaaa so this was supposed to be a one shot? but then it got out of hand so LOL my loss i guess ;; there's also the very slight chance i won't be able to finish bc well ;; well. just. yeah. ((also the title is a work in progress. excuse

For Bill Denbrough, summertime would always be painting by his bedroom window, tank tops and short shorts (or at least the shortest shorts he owns), the warm wind slapping his face that would cause him to surrender back to his room. Summers were running around the mud in worn sneakers and looking through his friends’ vintage photographs and making fun of how young and stupid and _thriving_ their now rickety-limbed grandparents were. Summers were catching tadpoles down at the man-made pond and running from the grumpy-old-man-next-door’s dog.

It meant spending more time under his parents' uncaring gaze and less things to take his mind off their neglect and obvious want to change their son.

But then they found out Georgie has asthma and summertime was going to be two-day roadtrips to stupid less-urban Derry, Maine with stupid rains and stupid towny murder mysteries that stupid townies don’t talk about. That’s concerning, actually. He really should convince their parents to buy some vacation house in Vermont. Unfortunately near Derry, but at least it isn’t actually.

“I’m bored,” Georgie groans as he looks up from his console. He’s lying down on the bunkbed their dad and his siblings used to share, rickety and dusty and sometimes things get lost underneath and are never found again. Bill swivels from the office chair their grandpa got just for him, but kicks a little too hard so he swivels back to face the table. He does an awkward wiggling motion to face Georgie.

“Maybe you wouldn’t be so bored if you two went outside to play!” His mom says before Bill can say anything. He assumes she stopped conversation with his grandma to shout it through the thin walls. She’d do that. He rolls his eyes and spins around in his chair. 

“I w-w-wish I b-brought my d-d-drawing ssssss…stuff,” He says wistfully, thinking of paintings by the window and video games with his friends back in California. 

“Actually,” Georgie says softly as he turns off the console. Bill stops his chair to face him. He searches through his backpack and fishes out a worn sketchbook and a light blue pencil case. “I thought you’d forget.”

Bill outright gasps and lunges like a lion for the materials. His hands shake as he holds them, gratitude flooding his nerves for having such a caring little brother. He turns to Georgie, a silent plea to come with him outside to scope for a summertime muse. Georgie nods. They follow through with routine.

The routine goes like this: Georgie takes Bill’s hand and rushes him out of the door to their mom. Bill hides the fact that it was his idea, to make it more likely for their mom to be at least slightly pleased and more positive. Georgie asks to go outside, which is guaranteed granted, him being the obvious favourite. (The fact neither of their parents try to hide, given they mostly pretend their stuttering shame of an eldest son doesn’t exist.) The reason they have to do this is of itself sad and pathetic, so it remains one of the many secrets the Denbroughs try to hide.

“Derry’s actually not that bad-looking,” Georgie says as they walk out of the Big House. He captures Bill’s hand in his and swings it like the little kid he is. He leads Bill through rows of picket fences and single-tree yards to what seems to be a rusted park that the town tried to forget. The swings’ actual colours were indecipherable through the rust on the metal paint, the slide was the crappy metal ones that are a pain to use in the summer, the seesaw’s handles were coming off and one of which was actually left on the floor to be reattached by some outsider who didn’t know the town would leave it like that on purpose, whether it be for the next child murder or the local bully to use for their next victim. Who knows, maybe those two would be the same thing.

Bill shakes his head before some horrible plot for what would be a horrible story forms. 

“What about that one?” Georgie points to a group of kids playing cards at a clearing of the flora covering the kids’ park. He’s pointing particularly to a curly-haired boy, which might just be the prettiest one there. Georgie pauses, and brings his formerly pointing finger to tap on his chin before Bill can scold him that it’s rude to do that. “Actually, why don’t we join them?”

As always, before Bill can say anything in protest, he’s being dragged to the circle of friends, about to get humiliated because he’s too frozen up to speak with his stupid stutter. Georgie introduces both of them, and the others just sort of look amongst themselves while the only girl in the group is listening with a smile. Her presence is inviting, her energy pulling you in like a black hole, her voice as sweet and strong as the cherry red staining her lips, and Bill figures it’s his writer’s mind triggering such words flowing to his mouth and getting tied by his tongue.

“We were wondering if we could play with you guys,” Georgie provides after the girl introduces each of her friends and herself. Bev, she says, and really, that’s all Bill can take note of. He mostly notices how much of a group of misfits they look like, hiding among bushes just to play card games and live out childhood wonder. Maybe that’s the case, considering the one with glasses is trying to pull the smallest guy there into a kiss. 

“Sure!” Bev says, moving away to make the circle bigger so that the two can fit in. “We were just about to start a new round.”

“Of what, exactly?” Georgie asks, settling into his place as comfortably as Bill is awkward in his. He’s situated between Georgie and the curly-haired boy that Georgie was pointing at. The boy scrutinises him through squinting eyes, his lashes ghosting over his freckles and light moles. Bill tries not to look him in the eyes, afraid that he might have to make conversation.

“Ha!” Georgie’s shrill voice breaks through Bill’s quick-thickening wall of fear. “Bill’s great at this game! Right, Billy? Right?” Bill looks at Georgie through cottony, mind-numbing gaze and he can’t even answer that question because he doesn’t know what game they’re playing. People are staring at him, oh no, oh no, they’re judging. They’re judging. Answer, Bill. Answer. Georgie nudges him, sharp in his torso. “Bill,” he whispers airily. “It’s slapjacks.”

“O-oh,” he stutters out, and he turns bright red, because curse his goddamn stutter, damn it. Damn it all. “Ah, yeah. Y-yeah.”

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Says the gangly boy with glasses as he finally pulls away from the small guy. Bill ducks his head at the comment. 

“Richie!” Bev scolds, landing a fist on his shoulder. “Be nice. It’s okay, Bill. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Bill nods dumbly, already falling hard for this girl. Summer, that’s what it’s for. Falling in love with girls whose hair he will later learn is endearingly described by a boy more smitten than he as winter fire. He will later learn that it is normal to be at least a little in love with Bev, as that’s the energy she possesses. It draws you in, wild and lashing like a tornado, and the next thing you know you’re out, without knowing what happened.

“S-sorry,” Bill squeaks, and directs the next part at the kid with glasses, Richie. “I…I just h-have t-this, this… S-s-s-s-s…” His face turns redder and the tips of his ears are starting to flush, too. His tongue can’t let go of the words quite smoothly, and his hands start to pale and turn clammy. 

“Stutter,” Georgie finishes, looking at him like everyone at school first did, like his parents do, like his friends do, when they have to finish a sentence for him. Pity, written all over his features. His eyes curve and shine with something Bill so explicitly abhorred. He looks away from Georgie, choosing to silently ask Bev for the deck. His deal. Bev nods, handing him the cards. In swift, practised motion, as he had always done when playing alone, the cards are parted and shuffled, like they do in casinos. All that filled their ears were the birds chirping and cards slapping against each other. Some watched in wonder. Only Bev, and the curly-haired kid, look on in normalcy. 

He deals the cards in silence. Some of the kids choose to talk as he hunches over to press a card into their pile, laying messy on the dirt. He catches glimpses of their conversations, learns that the small kid’s name is Eddie, or something of the sort; the one with glasses is Richie; Bev likes to smoke; she and the kid Bill learns to be endearingly called Benny (so his name must be Ben) has a sort-of-couple thing going on.

The last card is dealt to Georgie, and Bill takes the moment before they start the game to try to learn what he can visually. A disc sort of deal is perched precariously atop curly’s head, and Bill can’t quite make out what the details in flesh pink and deep red are, but for now he’d pin it to be little embroidered animals. Bev’s wearing a train wreck of suspiciously coordinated clothes. Richie is just simply a train wreck. Eddie can’t stop pawing nervously at his fanny pack. 

“Okay,” says Ben, voice timid. “Who starts?” 

Richie puts down the card off the top of his deck. “Ace,” They all chant. Next is Eddie, who throws his with surprisingly amazing precision unto the card Richie had put down. “Two.” Ben puts his down. “Three.” 

No one’s putting down a card.

“Mike,” says Ben as he nudges who Bill now knows is Mike. Mike looks up, expectant. Bev laughs. Richie smirks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Mm?” He hums. “Where’s the next card?”

“It’s your turn!” Georgie laughs. Mike makes an O with his mouth, and throws down his card.

“Four,” they say. The curly-haired kid puts his down gingerly, the motion looking mechanical somehow. “Five.” Bill puts his down, heart thumping. “Six.” Six of spades. His hand is the first on the pile. The others, in a matter of nanoseconds, dissolve into fits of gasps and screams as their hands try to race unto the pile.

“Dammit!” Richie shouts, as his hand is the last on the stack. “Six cards, six cards,” he says, trying to reassure himself, as he arranges the pile on the ground and takes it into his hand. The others are laughing. Bill joins along, his heart hammering against his chest. He inspects his bright red hand, being slapped by an eager Eddie. 

Richie puts a card down. “Ace,” they all chant. Jack of hearts. Curly’s hand comes flying. Then Bill. Ben ends up getting the card. 

“It’s just one,” he says calmly as he shuffles his cards around, drawing a section from the middle and putting it on top. They go on like that, for a while. Curly, who by Richie’s stupid nicknames Bill learns to be Stan, was the first to shed off all his cards, but Beverly says something about “three more slaps, then you’re free.” Bill and Eddie get rid of theirs next. By Stan’s second slap, he gets a fat stack of cards. 

Bev ends up losing. As she demands for another round, Stan stands up.

“Where are you going?” She inquires, hands on her hips and leering at Stan. He turns to pack his bag, and Bill can clearly see the deep reds and faded pinks and bright whites of his kippah forming birds and delicate feathery embellishments. He slings the blue drawstring bag over his shoulder and checks his watch.

“Home. It’s Friday.” He makes a long ritual of going around and saying private goodbyes. To Bill and Georgie, he stands awkwardly. Bill shrugs and waves his hand. Georgie smiles. Stan turns back to Bev. “You know how he is. I’m already risking our compromise by staying out.”

“Well,” Bev says, also standing up. “Guess that means there’s no point in us staying out, too.” The rest of them follow, and Bill takes Georgie’s hand to lead him back to the Big House. Richie and Eddie bike towards the other end. Bev, Ben, and Mike go the other. Bill, Stan, and Georgie, it appears, are going to the same direction.

“So,” Stan starts, as they’ve made their way to the beginnings of picket fences and single-tree yards. “You’re Mr. Denbrough’s grandkids?”

“Y-yeah,” Bill says, swinging Georgie’s hands. “H-how’d you know?”

“I saw your car pull up in the driveway the other day,” he recounts, and slips his hands in front of him to twiddle his fingers as a means to occupy himself. “I live right across his house, so it’s hard to miss.”

Conversation doesn’t flow too easily after that. They stay silent, walking past white fences whose paint faded yellow with age as they get to the more ancient parts of Derry. Some of them had vines wrapped around the wood, showing signs of dilapidated grace. Bill likes this part of Derry. It didn’t hide the signs of time, and that, Bill figures, is when its beauty shone best.

He’d describe Stan in similar fashion.

“Well, Bill, it’s been fun.” Stan relinquishes his grip on the drawstring bag and takes out a sketchbook, new and perfect, with more pages to fill for the summer than the one Georgie had brought. He places it in Bill’s hesitant grip. “Mr. Denbrough tells me his grandson makes the most marvellous paintings. Use it well.” He starts to make off into his own house.

“T-thank you,” Bill says quietly. Stan, from the steps of his house, turns back and shoots Bill a flashing grin. A mellow, airy laugh fills his ears as Stan unlocks his door.

“Have a good day, Bill.” He enters the house, and something giddy fills Bill’s stomach as he stares at the fresh, cream-coloured pages of a new sketchbook.

Yeah, he thinks. This is what summer’s about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he l l o thank you for reading ;; if ya'll would like more please leave a comment! (I live off of those)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys wanna know a secret? 
> 
> ((this chapter and the next have been finished since before I posted chapter one))
> 
> ahem ahem, anyways, yeah ! texting happens and stuf, but if the format seems weird to ya i'm sorry lol

Georgie’s playing racing games on his console and Bill’s staring out of the bedroom window, a sketchbook on his lap and a pencil in his hand, replaying the day’s events. The bedroom window is one of those little window seats girls have in the movies. His dad’s sister had asked for it. It was uncomfortable to sit in, with the cushions gone and a spiderweb growing in the upper left corner of the space. His slouching back is poked at by sharp corners and his head is sitting atop his hand, his fingers tapping unknown rhythms on his chin.

“Stan’s really nice,” Georgie says and all Bill could see were his legs laying off from the top bunk, suspended in the air. “What do you think?”

“I t-think they’re all n-nice,” Bill replies absentmindedly from his place in the alcove. “You t-think we’ll ever s-s-see them again?”

“I mean.” Georgie’s limbs retract and disappear into the space hidden by the top bunk. His head pops out, toothy grin plastered across his features. “One of them lives across from where we’re staying.”

“Yeah,” Bill remembers. He could very well be staring at Stan’s bedroom window and maybe he’ll never find out if he was. Figures dance in the dark across the road, and Bill could vaguely make out someone entering the room directly opposite from his. The lights are opened. Stan’s in just a towel. Bill shuns his eyes and pretends to draw. 

A few minutes later he looks back up and a fully clothed Stan is staring back at him. Hesitantly, he waves, and Stan grins. He clasps his four fingers together and makes a motion with his thumbs that Bill doesn’t understand.

_What?_ Bill mouths, hoping Stan would understand that. Stan shakes his head and disappears. Bill goes back to his sketchbook, only slightly fazed by the interaction. He draws cards on dirt, birds in the trees and eyes he knows to be ocean blue, despite the graphite grey on paper. Lines make twisted trees and lithe swans. It’s his own little grey universe, by no means masterful and orderly, but his nonetheless.

His indulgence of drawing himself as a rogue (a class he had picked the one time his friends took a gander at the game, despite not being dexterous or mischievous in his own right. But then again, he supposes it _is_ a game where he could be anything), was cut short by Georgie saying his name and pointing at the house across the street, where a sign written in marker sat all by its lonesome on the windowsill. 

_Phone no.?_

Bill ponders the situation. The boy across the street that he had just met today had already given him a present. He apparently chats with Bill’s grandfather, has to go home early on Fridays to hold up his end of an unknown deal, and is now asking for his phone number. He seems to know more about Bill than he does of Stan, so it’s rather unfair. He figures it wouldn’t hurt to try to make a friend for the summers here. He decides to grab the old whiteboard they used to frequent. At least now it’ll be used again.

The marker is almost out of ink as he writes down the last digits of his number. The figures at the end dwindle down to streaky, fading black that would be a pain to erase. It’s okay. It’s the long-term results that count. He leaves the board on the windowsill and prepares for his night shower. 

“G-georgie, can you c-charge my p-p-phone,” He throws into the air as he enters the bathroom. He hopes Georgie listens.

He walks out of the bathroom shivering, half-covered with a towel and a little eager. His phone is on the bedroom desk, plugged into the wall with the bright red charger they had gotten when they broke the one that came with the mobile. He silently thanks Georgie and turns it on. While waiting for the logo to pass he wonders if Stan even went back to check. He gets his answer a few moments after he types in the passcode, as the bars come to life and he starts receiving messages. Some were from his friends back in Cali, the others were promotions and standard things of the sort.

Then there was the unknown number. 

_7:10 PM_

_[Unknown]: Hey._  
_This is Stan, by the way.  
_ _The others are saying they’d want you two to join them for tomorrow._

_B_ ill saves the contact and changes the name before he types out a question he probably shouldn’t be asking.

_[Bill]: and what about you_  
_?  
_ _what do you think about us joining tomorrow_

 _[Stan]: Listen, I’d love you to._  
_From what your grandfather says, I think ypu’re pretty cool._  
_*you’re_  
_But I won’t even be there tomorrow.  
_ _So I guess either way, my opinion isn’t an issue here._

 _[Bill]: I mean it kinda does_  
_bc if any ofyou didnt want us to be there we wont go_  
_well maybe georgie will,  
_ _i just know I won’t_

_[Stan]: That’s pretty considerate of you._

_[Stan]: So, what is it?_

_[Bill]: whats what lol_

_[Stan]: Are you coming tomorrow or what?  
_ _I’ll have to send them your answer one day or another._

_[Bill]: oh  
_ _sure ig_

Stan doesn’t reply after that. Bill leaves his phone on the desk to maybe finally get dressed. Before he takes off his towel, he shoots a look at the window, ushering in the light from outside. Peering at the night-dipped streets and blinking lights, he closes the curtains. He pretends it’s California, with all his friends a walk away, and definitely not all the way across the States.

But for now, there’s Stan across the street, and Bev tomorrow. There’s the others, too, with some game ready to play for the whole day. He supposes he can live with that for a few months. Then it’ll be back to normal.

_7:28 PM_

_[Bill]: if you don’t mind me asking  
_ _why wont you be here tmrw_

_[Stan]: Tell me if I’m stepping too far, okay?_  
_But, like,  
_ _You need to decide if you’re using whole words and apostrophes or not._

 _[Bill]: it’s my txting aesthetic_  
_dont judge me  
_ yuo don’t understand the appeal

_[Stan]: It’s hard not to when your apparent “texting aesthetic” is such an eyesore to look at.  
_ _Have you ever checked the definition of aesthetic?_

 _[Stan]: “Giving or designed to give pleasure through beauty.”_  
_“Of pleasing appearance.”  
_ _That isn’t giving me pleasure, nor is it of pleasing appearance._

 _[Bill]: The beauty is in the imperfection of it all._  
_plus have u checked its definition as a noun  
_ a set of principles underlying and guiding the work of a particular artist or artistic movement

_[Stan]: Texting isn’t an art, Bill._

_[Bill]: and Donald trump deserved to be president  
_ _so I guess we’re both liars then :/_

_[Stan]: Whatever you say, William.  
_ _Whatever you say._

_[Bill]: are you saying youd vote for trump_

_[Stan]: I’m saying go to sleep.  
_ _Because I am._

_[Bill]: you never answered my question tho_

_[Stan]: Shabbat._

_[Bill]: ain’t it a saturday_

_[Stan]: Christian Sabbath is on Sundays.  
_ _Jewish Shabbat is on Friday-Saturday._

_[Bill]: cool  
_ _well gnight then_

_[Stan]: Will do._

Bill leaves him alone and is reminded, by Georgie’s shrill whine, that he is still, in fact, in just a towel and getting the bed wet. Bill shrugs and gets off to put his pajamas on. He spends a few moments after that rereading his exchange with Stan. 

_Tell me if I’m stepping too far, okay?_

But what if it was Bill that was stepping too far? Had he gotten too comfortable, too lost in the implication of a new friend? Was he too annoying? Too pushy? Is that why Stan went to sleep as early as he did?

But Stan said he had Shabbat. Stan said he had things to do. Besides, he didn’t know Stan. Maybe Stan was one of those kids that actually took care of himself and went to sleep early. Maybe. Maybe.

He stepped too far. He’s sure he did. He got too excited. He got too eager. He did. He just did.

Maybes aren’t convincing enough. In the end, his resolve is weak, his maybes attempting—and failing—to drown out his running thoughts. His inability to decide for himself had often cost him sleepless nights, and he decides tonight will not be one of those nights. He closes his eyes, phone clasped to his chest, and forces himself to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya hope you enjoyed that ! kudos and comments are very much appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fuc it. ya'll gotta wait out my writer's block now, so have this chapter before that long-ass period of silence

_4:46 AM_

_[Stan]: Oh yeah,_  
_They say to meet them at the quarry._  
 _If you want, I can take you there._  
 __ _But you’ll have to wake up extra early._

_[Bill]: ohmygod_  
 ___i thought you were sleeping?_  
  
_[Stan]: That makes both of us._

_[Bill]: How early is early?_

_[Stan]: …  
now._

_[Bill]: SHIT  
GOTTA GO FAST_

_[Stan]: tf  
I didn’t know you curse._

_[Bill]: i didn’t know u could send a message w/o proper syntax_

_[Stan]: Shut up.  
I’m going to leave without you if you’re not out by 5._

Bill’s out of his door by 5:01. He stares at the empty street, mood deflating as the seconds creep up his skin. Numb, barely-there heat coats his back in embarrassment. He looks down, lips slightly trembling and eyes searching. Of course. Of course, Stan would make good on his word. Did he really think he was joking?

Stan walks out of his door, grinning at his phone. The light of his mobile graced his features like a spotlight, his eyes glinting back the reflection. He looks up as soon as he locks the door. His hand flies up in greeting.

“Hey,” Stan says softly. He pockets his phone and makes a habit of thumbing the straps of his drawstring bag, the same blue one from a while ago, technically yesterday. His other hand reaches for something at his neck, and there is some sort of disappointment on his face when there was nothing to grab on to. He hooks his hands again on the strings and twists them around, tangling them with the faded white cord. “You good?”

“Y-yeah,” Bill replies, and they fall into stride. They pass the usual white picket fences, the single-tree yards and the abandoned park. Bill sees a few more things, a cafe by the street with an ice cream store next to it, a movie theatre flashing signs of a new romance movie (probably the only one that would be showing) and replays of older ones. A school, one that Stan probably goes to. Or will go to. Or has gone to. It’s a small town, Stan’s bound to do so.

“Here,” Stan says. Bill looks at the path leading into a weave of trees, their silhouettes ominous in the murky purple sky. He keeps watching as Stan steps closer into the dark shadows of the trees, the toes of his shoes disappearing. “What are you waiting for?” He asks, turning to Bill with furrowed eyebrows and a tightening grip on his bag. “Come on.”

“A-alright,” Bill mutters. His stares at his feet, refusing to move until his heart calms down. What could be in the forest? It wonders, whispering fearful thoughts in his ears as he listens to chirping birdsong, which sounded more foreboding with the scene presented in front of him.

“Bill,” Stan says, voice sharp and impatient. His eyes are glaring, no longer holding any friendly lightness as they always did. Bill’s feet sink deep into the ground. The blunt heat on his back returns, flowing slow like lava and burning like an obnoxious heat wave. His head is a sharp contrast, floating and cold. His hands are buzzing. 

“I…” He begins to say, but Stan takes his hand forcefully and leads him deeper and deeper into the winding path. The towering trees block the fading moonlight, and when he looks up he sees a purple to blue fade, framed by leaves of Oak and Tamarack, all cool tones and sinister. His heart beats loudly in his ears, crushing his head like a tin can under a child’s foot.

Stan abruptly stops. He takes one assessing look at Bill, and smirks. Small, but noticeable on his usually passive face. “Are you scared, Bill?”

Bill doesn’t reply. There is no correct response to that question, anyways. A no would lead to Stan calling him a liar. A yes would lead Stan to make fun of him. He stares at Stan, although he looks beyond, so his vision is hazy and out of focus. Stan grips his hand tighter. He places his other hand on Bill’s shoulder and leans in to his ear.

“It’s okay to be scared, Bill,” he whispers, sending a small breeze of warm breath to graze Bill’s ear. “I kind of am, too.”

“Y-you are?” Bill stutters, and for once he’s not sure if it’s because he has a stutter or of the fear creeping up his skin and tearing at his eyes. 

“Yeah.” Stan pulls back and fixes his curls, other hand still firmly gripping Bill’s. The fear gripping at his throat, crawling like spiders across his legs, drowning him like the unforgiving waves of untamed oceans pulls back a little.

“T-the m-murderer c-could be hiding here,” Bill breathes, voice foreign and stagnant when thrown to the air. Once he’s said it, he realises how possible that could be. His heart beats a little harder, crashing itself into his ribcage, creating microscopic fractures that would make his chest crumble to dust if the paralysing terror doesn’t stop. 

“The murderer?” Stan says, as he begins to walk again. “Did you mean Pennywise?”

“O-okay,” Bill says, and furrows his brows as he catches up with Stan’s big, confident strides with his own small, hesitant ones. “Now y-you’re just making s-s-s-s…”

“Take your time,” Stan advised, making a turn. The trees begin to clear up a little more. The sky is a little more blue than purple.

“Stuff.” Bill purses his lips together like it will stop his stutter from butchering his words. “Making s-stuff up.”

“Oh, no.” Stan turns to him, and behind him a clearing forms, abruptly stopping into a fall, down to what Bill presumes is a lake. Stan’s eyes are wide, telling Bill stories he won’t understand lest he pay attention to Stan’s words. “If you ask anyone, they’ll know.” He lets go of Bill’s hand. “They’ll know the name that keeps children up at night, the name that sends shivers down your spine, that summons something worse than the devil itself.”

“P-pennywise?” Bill shakes his head. “Is t-that really the b-b-best y-you can think of?”

“No, Bill.” Stan takes a step forward, closer to Bill, in what should be friendly, but comes of, with this atmosphere, as threatening. “He’s haunted this town for thousands of years, some say before the first signs of life even came to be.”

“Uh, no.”

“Uh, yes,” Stan says, face unreadable and dark as the pale yellows start to rise, casting shadows of Stan’s hair across his features. “He’s your deepest fear, what makes your heart ache at night, what rattles your bones and shakes you to the core.”

“D-did you really make t-this up just to s-s-s-sssss…scare me?”

Stan’s hands come flying to Bill’s arms. “Listen, Bill,” he says, tone scaring Bill into nodding. “He’ll get you. He’ll get you, and you won’t even know it. You’ll feel his teeth sink into your flesh, all around your face, tugging at your limbs, and you’ll wake up in that sweet, sweet afterlife, and you go, shit, I’ve been…” He falls into a trance, searching for the right word, and says, as definite as the earth going around the sun, “I’ve been gotted.”

Bill doesn’t know why, but he laughs, loud and booming, sending birds rustling through the trees and escaping a possible threat. Yet Stan glares at him, like how his mom would when he messes with Georgie during church. 

“He’ll appear to you,” Stan continues, calm and forbidding, “And you’ll know it’s him. You’ll be frozen in fear, because all of a sudden your worst fears are before you and tangible and _there_. So you can’t even do anything, and soon you’ll be forgotten, because that’s what happens when he eats you, you’ll just be another one of Its dinners, never to be seen again.”

Bill’s caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting it red. “W-weren’t we going to the quarry?” He babbled, and Stan opens his mouth and touches the tip of his tongue to his canine. 

“No,” he says, airy and distant. He starts leading Bill to the cliff. The sky is a faded blue-yellow palette when Bill realises he’s the next victim.

There’s a push on his back and he supposes he is falling, so he lets a little whimper escape his ill-bitten lips.

Stan is the one who laughs this time, soft and airy as it had been yesterday. “I’m just messing with you, Bill,” he confides.“You’re not gonna die, don’t worry. Although, Pennywise _is_ real.” He pouts and shakes his head, face in a pondering expression. “Supposedly.”

“W-what?”

“Yeah,” Stan says, staring down into the lake. “No one’s seen him yet. I’m pretty sure it’s just this town’s way of coping with the murders.”

“How? C-c-coping? W-what?

“Yeah. It’s like, they can’t even comprehend the idea that there’s a murderer around here, so they make something up.” Stan sits down, his legs dangling off the edge of the cliff. 

“So, P-pennywise is like an urban l-l-legend?” Bill frowns and follows Stan, sitting down and swinging his legs. Down below, his reflection does the same in the glinting water of the lake.

“Maybe, but think of it more like a local cryptid,” Stan corrects. “Pennywise has been around for longer than all of us, I’ve heard. My parents heard it from their parents as kids, who heard it from their parents, and that goes on and on and on.”

“Oh,” Bill trails off, and conversation dies down. He starts it back up upon remembering something Stan had said. “D-don’t you have S-shabbat?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Stan opens his bag and pulls out a pair of binoculars, old and heavy-looking, but seemed to be in great care. “But I wake up really early to watch.”

“W-w-watch?” 

Without a word, Stan points towards the trees on the opposite side of the cliff, leaves rimmed with the light of the early morning. birds, too many to count, emerge from the greens, bathed in sunlight and making the scene all painted-like. Bill makes a note to himself to paint this later. Blues, whites and yellows, a bit of purple fill his eyes in visions he sees but are not really there. Before he could dive deeper into how that happens, Stan speaks up.

“Aren’t they amazing?” Stan sighs. Bill is too speechless to even nod. “I wish I were a bird.” Stan draws patterns with his finger, pointing at each bird and muttering its name under his breath. “I could leave this stupid town whenever I want, leave and never come back, no consequences.” His head drops, and suddenly he’s looking at Bill, elegant, greenish-gold irises staring at him in awe. “I wish I were you.”

“W-why would you w-w-want to b-b-be m-mmmm… me?” Bill could barely let the words stumble out of his mouth, as he drowns himself in the look Stan gives him, a look no one’s ever shot at him with before. The morning sun makes light bounce against his irises, and coats his hair in gold, as thin as spider silk and neat as Stan. Bill wishes the moment would last forever.

But Stan’s wide-eyed gaze grows cold and half-distant, wide-eyed, but empty in its own right. “You _really_ don’t know what it’s like to live here, don’t you?”

Bill shakes his head.

“Okay, let’s do you a favour and leave it at that, yeah?”

“Y-yeah.”

They don’t stay for a while after that. The long, silent walk back home is filled with Bill’s thoughts weighing heavy on his shoulders. Yeah, he guesses he never will understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmm don't you just love foreshadowing ✪w✪
> 
> anyways please leave comments/kudos! I love all of you and reading about what you liked <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh. I'm not very satisfied with this, but if i try to edit it I'll just never post it. 
> 
> All that aside, this chapter goes more into Bill's ultimately fruitless anxieties, because let's face it, he shouldn't even be worrying about that shit
> 
> ~~or me just projecting my own useless everyday worries on him in an equally useless attempt to understand and therefore get rid of them~~

They went swimming in the quarry, obviously. Bev had talked Bill into taking a so-called “leap of faith,” supposedly to initiate him into the group. Georgie had wanted to take the jump, too.

“But Bill!” He had whined, tugging furiously on Bill’s shorts. Bill took one look at him, who barely came to Bill’s chest, and shook his head.

“N-no, Georgie. I-if you g-g-get hurt…” He gives him a pleading look. _Our mom, Georgie. Routine, Georgie._ He plasters the thought on his face. _Remember routine._

Beverly had agreed with Bill. Georgie willingly listened to her, because honestly, who wouldn’t?

So this is why Bill finds himself staring maybe sixty feet down, with only his underwear on, and the others are cheering for him to just take the plunge into the cold water. He thinks he’s about ready to piss himself. He’s fourteen, and Bill’s not ashamed to admit he will willingly do that if it meant not having to do this.

_Come on,_ he tells himself. _The others are watching. The water won’t kill you._ But his legs still refused to sling him down into the lake. His vision starts swimming, making himself seem higher than he actually is. His heart rumbles a storm in his chest, repeating, he’ll die. He doesn’t know how, but he will. 

Heavy hands land on his back and he’s falling, longer than he had expected. His legs fly wildly, whipping at the air in an attempt to find something– _anything_ —to land on. “Son of a bitch,” he cries as he lands, his arse goes sore with the force with which it hits the water. 

“Stan the man!” Richie exclaims, enthused as he stares up at Stan. Bill glares (or squints. He doesn’t really know how to glare) at him, and hopes he sees. He doesn’t. “I thought you had Jew church?” Richie shouts upwards, clamping his hands to the sides of his mouth in an attempt to make his voice louder.

“What?” Stan shouts back. Before any of them could respond, he shouts, “hold on!” He disappears back into the space hidden by the cliff, and the air is empty for a while. They all wait with bated breath, and soon Stan comes, flinging himself into the lake with no hesitance. No one to push him and nothing to hold him back. Unsurprisingly, Bill stares in awe as he plummets to the lake with his knees huddled to his chest and eyes gently closed.

“Yeah!” Richie cheers. “Show ‘em how it’s done, Stan!” He holds out his hand in the air.

Stan returns the high-five weakly and with a roll of his eyes. “Okay,” he says, arm disappearing under the water. “What were you saying?”

“D-d-don’t you have c-church?” Bill fills in. Stan shoots him a small grin. He wades closer to the rest of them, wet curls cascading over his forehead. 

“My dad said I needed to get out of the house, if you know what I mean,” He says simply, and the rest of their grins drop. Concern takes its place among each of their faces, settling so comfortably it was rather uncomfortable. Bill was rather uncomfortable. Confused, but mostly uncomfortable.

“W-wait, what?” He tries to say, but is drowned out by Beverly saying her aunt wouldn’t mind her having a friend over, so if he wants, he can come over for dinner. Ben interrupts by saying his mom will be more than happy if Stan wanted to come over to stay the night. Mike says he wouldn’t mind having an extra companion at his grandparents’ farm. 

Bill’s heart pushed against his chest, and he finds himself grasping for Georgie’s hand. The mere inches of water between them and the others expand into vast oceans, dark and swallowing. It consumes him, pushing him further and further away until he’s the only person in the world. An island, they say. It’s lonely.

He looks at Georgie, staring at the others with a blank face, as if he understood. The need to go home fills his heart. Home, not to the Big house, but California, where he understood everything his friends would hint at, every inside joke, every unspoken rule. Here, not knowing their codes and signs, pushes him away and makes him feel so alone. Somehow, even Georgie understood.

But Georgie squeezes his hand and looks up at him with big, wide eyes. “What’s happening?” He asks, and Bill finds twisted solace in the fact that he’s not the only one who’s lost. The feeling it gives him pulls his chest in ways he can’t possibly describe, pushing his lungs and ribs apart in a thousand directions at once and none at all. He breathes, relieved.

“I d-don’t know,” he says. 

“Should we ask?”

Bill thinks for a while. “No.”

“Whatever!” Stan shouts, all of a sudden. He’s eyeing Bill, _they’re left out_ written all across his features. Bill knows that look. He was always the one giving people that look. The tables turning makes his stomach churn in almost-anger and something he couldn’t quite put a finger to. He knows he doesn’t want that look on pity on him. _Stop_ , he begs silently. _Please, stop._

Stan wades over to him and they’re both just staring at each other. Bill, with a face he has never made before, lips pursed and eyes curving, _pleading_ , at him. Stan, with pity being slowly replaced by confusion. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He says, hands crossing over his bare chest. Bill doesn’t answer, only chooses to look away and let Georgie swim over to Beverly, who was calling him over. He hunches in on himself, sinking deeper into the water. “Hey,” Stan says. He puts a hand on Bill’s shoulder. It’s warm, contrasting with the cold water running down his skin. “Are you okay?”

_No._ “Yeah.” _No, I’m not._ “W-w-what m-made y-you…you th-think th-that–that?”

“Hm,” Stan hums. His hand retracts and he leans in, uncomfortably close. Bill backs away, but it seems no matter what he did, the oceans between him and the rest of Stan’s friends was reduced into mere drops of water between him and Stan. “Your grandfather also said your stutter gets worse when you lie.”

Bill furrows his eyebrows. The air around him becomes hot and tense, his head grows pained. “W-why would he even t-tell you that?”

“It’s simple, Denbrough.” Stan puts a finger between Bill’s eyes. “I asked.”

“Wooh! Stan the man, gettin’ the big D!” Richie whoops from way behind Stan. Not too long after, Bill hears Richie being pushed underwater by Eddie’s hand on his throat.

Stan’s head whips around so quickly Bill’s sure he broke his neck. He starts swimming as fast as he could towards Richie and Eddie, and Bill found himself cheering. In his head. Cheering in his head, but cheering nonetheless. He sees Bev cover Georgie’s eyes and he starts to paw at her hands to get her off his space. Bill finds Mike beside him. 

“They always do this,” he sighs. The mix of both amusement and what seems to be the vocal equivalent of an eye roll in Mike’s tone reminds Bill of his friends back in California. Their antics wouldn’t be like this, but would earn the same sigh from Mike, except it’s Bill sighing.

“I-is that right?” Bill smiles. Mike nods, and crosses his arms, looking quite like a proud parent. Bill sees the love in his eyes, the complete adoration for his friends that he most likely saw as family. He could almost say the same for his own friends. Except it almost always felt like there was a glass wall between he and they, thin and unimportant but there and bothering him.

“By the way,” Mike looks at him, brown eyes scanning him over. “We’re coming over Bev’s after this.”

Bill doesn’t think much of it. “Cool.” He’s coming over to Bev’s. Great. He’ll get to see her house and her bedroom and learn more about her and meet her parents. He’ll get to delve a little deeper into Bev’s personal life.

Oh, no.

He’s coming over to Bev’s. Which should be fine, in theory, if only it wasn’t so _new_. The mere concept of something new strikes Bill in odd ways, but they’re mostly wrong and uncomfortable. It squeezes at his chest and makes his knees buckle and he’s sure he’s losing all the bloodflow to his fingers.

Stan’s coming back over to him. Mike’s left, at that point, and now Stan is staring at him, eyes full of questions that Bill couldn’t possibly answer. Bill sinks, because sooner he finds himself simply staring at Stan for the sake of staring. 

“Seriously,” Stan says after a minute-long staring contest with Bill. “Do I have something on my face?” His hands fly to his cheeks and scrubs awkwardly at the sides of his nose. Bill shakes his head.

“N-not at all,” Bill tries to reassure him. “I j-just zoned out. P-promise.”

Stan, in one gracefully sardonic motion, rolls his eyes and turns back to the rest of them.

They don’t spend much time in the water. The rain had started to pour, the droplets prickling their skin in small, semi-painful stings. Eddie, though constantly reassured that they won’t get sick while swimming, insists they get out of the lake. They all didn’t want to, until Richie stepped in.

“Actually,” he says, wiping his black tresses from his eyes. “A little swimming in the rain won’t get anyone sick.” The rest of them cheer and say a few _‘I told you so’_ s, while Eddie huffs in disapproval. Bill just smiles and shrugs with what should be empathy. “But!” Richie says, putting an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie’s face softens a bit, though it could just be the greying skies overhead. “Eds is right, swimming in the rain is dangerous. Lightning activity is unpredictable, so we’ll never know if it’ll hit the water. So better to be safe than dead, I guess.”

“Ahem, who said it’s better to be anything other than dead?” Stan deadpans, and they all laugh. Bill chortles uncomfortably, unsure whether to react how he usually would if one of his own friends were to say that, or if he should be concerned. He goes for an odd mix of both. A small, twisting feeling that sends shivers up his spine contorts his stomach.

They leave the water, and as they do, Bill looks over to Richie and Eddie, who walk up the rocky shores of the lake last. Richie still has his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, and has dropped his usual sharp grin for a softer, more passive one. Eddie’s smiling, too. His eyes are full of something he sees people in the movies look at each other with. Bill knows he’s smiling, too. That kind of happy-for-others kind of giddiness filling his stomach, toning down his earlier anxiety about doing something _new_.

_You’ve done this before, Denbrough._ He scolds himself, haplessly trailing after Stan. _You’ve been to your friends’ houses multiple times now. This is nothing new._ The clouds get darker and the trees loom in the distance. The water of the lake turns into a surface punctured by thin, rain-drop needles. 

He’s almost ready to bail. “S-stan,” he finds himself whispering. “Ssss…Stan.”

“Yeah?” Stan says, stopping for Bill. The others are halfway up the hill, Richie and Eddie aren’t too far behind them. Bill purses his lips.

“Are y-you sure it’s o-okay for m-me t-t-to c-come w-w-with you g-guys?” He says, voice coming out soft and wispy, a ghost to the wind. Stan turns to him, face analysing Bill’s. He doesn’t mention Bill’s amplified stutter. His heart pounds against his ribs again. His hands buzz with a tinge of static.

“What?” He says, after a while of considering what Bill had said. Bill decides it’s not a good question to ask. He shakes his head.

“N-nothing.” He ducks his head and walks faster. “D-don’t…Don’t w-w-worry about it.” Bill readies himself for the horror that will greet him in Bev’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of the usual comment note I just wanna wish you guys a sort of late happy hearts day <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's a little short, but that's all i can churn out because a) I'm sick 3) it's hell week at school and last, i still haven't quite gotten rid of my writer's block ^^; sorry guys, this might be a little shittier than usual
> 
> and before i forget, this story might turn out to be a little... long? Bc it spans from the summer before their first year in highschool to the one before senior high lol so STRRRAP IN

Bev’s house isn’t all that bad. The walls don’t suffocate him, despite being stuffed to the brim with furniture, and some knick knacks that Bev had collected over the years. A woman steps out of a door, of which Bill doesn’t know which one. She’s dressed simply, her face is left untouched and hair shoddily brushed. Bill smiles politely as he listens to Bev introduce Georgie and he.

“My aunt,” she says, gesturing to the woman, who peers at Bill with the face of someone who’s probably judged many. The sweat on Bill’s hand becomes out of place when she laughs and gives him a warm hug, one he’s never felt his own mother give him. She turns to Georgie and does the same, but ruffles his hair with an engrossed look on her features afterwards.

“Bringing home two more boys.” She shakes her head playfully. “My, Bevvie, you really can’t get enough, can’t you?”

“Auntie!” Bev’s cheeks turn as red as her lips as her lips curve with her surprise. Her eyebrows furrow with the motion. “They’re just my friends!”

“Of course, Beverly.” Her aunt walks back into her room, saying something to shout if they need anything. Bill finds it odd how Beverly lives with her aunt. A thousand reasons run through his head, all so explicitly personal and tragic that Bev might not like him mentioning it. He decides not to ask.

He decides never to know.

“So, what do you guys want to do?” She asks, and Bill tunes out the resounding chorus of mixed responses. Even Georgie replies with something.

They settle on movies.

He’s not sure how. All of the suggestions seemed to fall under either a video game or stupid ones, like spin the bottle and truth or dare. Bill decides it’s just how they work, and he’s not wrong. Stan laughs when Bill points it out. 

“That’s just how it is,” he says. Bill smiles back, unsure how to respond. He chooses to tune out the murmurs of ‘pass the popcorn’ or Richie’s comments about the movie in favour of the film itself. They all sit in Bev’s room, either on the bed or on the floor. They had given Bill and Georgie an honour seat on the bed. 

Bev had put in The Prisoner of Azkaban, despite Richie complaining how it’s the most confusing movie of the series. Bill doesn’t see his point, seeing as he understood both the book and the movie. But for now he’ll pin it to the fact that he read the book. After all, Richie doesn’t seem like the type of person who knows how to read.

Georgie sits on his lap, already falling asleep when Harry blows up his aunt into a balloon. He watches as Aunt Marge floats down Privet Drive, waiting for the inevitable expulsion from Hogwarts. Bill’s phone rings in his pocket. The others look at him, glaring. He mutters a quick sorry before standing up to leave and take the call. Georgie sitting himself down on the bed with a whine was the last thing he saw before closing the door behind him.

“Where are you,” his mother says, her voice stripped of all warmth whenever she talks to anyone but Bill. “Where’s your brother? Do you know how worried I am?”

“M-mom,” he tries to say. An odd feeling bubbles up his chest. His mother? Worried about him? Griping pain wrings around his heart like a snake, wrapping itself expertly, leaving no mercy in its trail. 

“I’m waiting, Bill,” she says again, voice like a heel, clacking staccato rhythms against a cold floor. It frightens him, the way his mother’s fury sent tsunamis, greater than walking into the forest under a dark-painted sky, greater than looking down a cliff and seeing rushing waters and jeering faces, greater than having to walk into the new and unknown. Greater than having to do all this in the same day.

“M-mom, I…” he says again, but the gathering wave of fear rises high into the orange sky, and crashes down on him with heavy waters of… despair. Tears poke at his eyes with steaming hot needles. He sits himself down in front of the bedroom door, staring down the empty hallway with a pain in his heart so numbly freezing, it burnt. 

His silent sniffling was about to turn into full-blown sobs when Georgie opens the door, a knowing expression dancing across his eyes. He tiptoes away from Bill and shuts the door behind him, sitting down and placing a small hand on Bill’s knee. The other hand takes the phone away, and he speaks, with the voice he’d use during Routine, a cheerful greeting. “Hey, mom!” Bill hears the interrupted fury of his mother be replaced with kind-hearted glee. He’s almost envious.

Georgie tells her a lie so intricately woven, Bill suspected he’d seen this coming. By the end, Bill’s face was pressed hard into his palms to muffle pained sighs. Georgie goes back in the room to tell the others they were leaving. Bill hears them insist on seeing them off, and Georgie, defenceless, complies. His heart stops in his chest as he looks up from wet, tear-stained palms to the door opening. 

Grins turn to shock turns to concern. A growing black hole sucks Bill into the ground. Stan’s the first to bend down and ask him if he’s okay. Bill nods despite himself, and Bev leaves to get tissues. Great. He’s only known these people for two days and he’s already crying in front of them.

The mere thought gets him breathing funny, has him crying harder, has the buzzing in his hands numb his arms. His hands feel like he’s dipped them into iced water for too long, pressed and unfeeling and drained of all blood-flow. He blinks, trying to comprehend what’s happening around him. But the tears won’t stop flowing and his heart won’t stop trying to break out of his ribs.

Oh, no. They take notice.

Stan’s hand grips his knee hard, but then the touch flees away and he assumes the person in front of him is Richie.

“Hey, man,” he laughs, and it’s really not helpful. The sound gets Bill angrier than he should be, and he shouldn’t be. “Big dick, right?”

“Richie!” Eddie screeches. 

“There’s a child here!” Mike says, tone offended.

Stan just deadpans a “Why are you talking like you’ve seen it, you whore?” And that, that makes Bill laugh. Tiny and blood-tinged, even if there’s no blood in his mouth. The tears that seep into his lips taste like salt. 

“Listen, okay?” Richie looks over to the rest of them, then back at Bill. “You can shorten that to Big D, which is what I said a while ago, yeah?”

“I guess?” Ben says, confused. “How is this important?”

“Which fits! Denbrough, right?” Richie asks, assumably, Georgie. He must have nodded, and Richie’s grinning at him, dimples popping at both sides of his face. How cute. “Big Denbrough!”

“No. Just,” Stan sighs. “No.”

“Big Bill Denbrough! Big Bill!”

“Richie–” Beverly, who must’ve come back, says. She’s interrupted by Richie cheering and laughing.

“New nickname! New nickname!” 

Bill laughs, despite it being a shoddily put-together joke. He doesn’t understand the complex yet amusingly simple line of logic that Richie used that got him to that conclusion, but somehow he does. It’s amazing what language can do.

“That was so…convoluted,” was all Stan could comment, and they all have a semi-good laugh. Bev hands Bill the box of tissues, and he wipes his face to get rid of the snot and tears that make him feel sweaty and disgusting. They demand an explanation.

He looks to Georgie, who nods. He considers lying, because this might be too much to reveal to them in such a short period of time. Their situation is long and complicated, the issue drawing back to the many secrets the Denbroughs struggle to hide. He decides, instead, to try to sum it up into one simple sentence.

“M-my mom, y-you s-sssss…see,” He says, but before he can finish, their faces all fill with understanding, huddling in to wrap their arms around him. The tears in his eyes come back, though for a more positive reason. A simple group hug, which he’d only now been given, is far more genuine than late night conversations with his friends and greeting slaps on his back, and it seems like all is better.

“It’s okay, Bill,” Beverly soothes. “We know.”

And it’s great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got ... a little depressing. hm. 
> 
> please leave kudos or a comment if you liked this fic ! I love hearing what you guys think about it :>


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: how long can i avoid mentioning the colour of Stan's hair because i can't decide wtf it is @wyatt 
> 
> also this chapter seems sort of filler?? but it was fun to write because we get to go deeper into stan's character ish
> 
> anywhooo this is the last chapter that'll be up for a while bc exams and stuff haha i can't study like a normal person

So Bill spends most of his time living out the last of his middle school days with Beverly Marsh and her group of lost boys. 

Except they’re all lost, and it’s almost funny how pathetic it is.

Georgie is now forbidden by his mom to go out with Bill, who she couldn’t care less about to punish. The look of disappointment was brief, but soon lost to her usual indifference. Bill hated how she didn’t even care enough to be mad.

The rest of the group is, of course, crestfallen with the loss. Bev gives Bill two cookies everyday. One for him, one for Georgie. They’re less than stellar, so he lets Georgie, who likes everything that is handed to him, have both. Bev’s experimenting, according to Mike. She wants to bake Ben something for his birthday, which is far from near. Though considering how her cookies were, Bev had made the right decision to start early.

But it’s not like he would ever tell her that.

He also gets to learn more things about Stan, inevitably. He tries to sketch, mostly etchings of birds he’d find, hidden amongst his belongings and scratch paper from school notes. He has a small collection of oddities, not unlike Bev. Bird feathers, a rat’s skull Richie had found in some shady store, crystals that Eddie said had ‘healing properties’. The list was endless.

Learning things about his new group of friends was like being an explorer, finding treasure with every new land he’d sift through. His discoveries were calming to find, mentioned in passing but Bill would mull each of them over carefully later that night, trying to find the piece’s place in the puzzle that is his new friends.

At least, that’s how most of them would go.

His latest discovery about Stanley Uris came in a bright red line straight down his leg as a panicked Stanley tried to clean the would the best he could with shaking hands and Bill trying hard not to wince with every dab of the damp towel. 

“Curse Edsworth,” Stan mutters as he leads Bill to the washroom and asks him to clean the wound himself. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Bill says as he closes the door and proceeds to the sink. “I-it’s just a s-ssss… a scratch.”

“Have you had your shots?”

“I…I guess?”

“It’s a yes or a no, Bill,” Stanley says, voice lined with impatience. Bill lathers the wound with soap, staining the bubbles pink and the water red. He hisses in pain when it comes in contact with the tissue.

“Y-yeah,” he answers, hastily rinsing of the soap to avoid anymore mishaps.

“I’m so sorry,” Stanley ducks his head as Bill exits the bathroom. “He doesn’t usually react like that to people.”

Bill thinks back to accidentally stepping on the cat’s tail as soon as he entered the house. “I-it’s okay,” he lies. “I’m v-very bad w-w-with animals.”

Stan raises an eyebrow, but drops it and gestures to Bill to come follow him to his bedroom. It’s the first time he’d be here, or anywhere in the Uris household in general. Stan opens the door to his room and Bill scuffles in, dragging his feet on the floor as he does. His foot gets caught on something, and before he can comprehend anything that is happening, his teeth feel like he tried to bite through bones and he’s on the floor, Stan’s feet appearing near his face.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, helping Bill to his feet. “I forgot to mention that part of the carpeting.” 

Bill looks to the floor. Right as one would enter the door, a snag in the carpet gave way to a rather handy trap. 

“I-it’s fine,” he stammers out as he walks through Stan’s room, white suddenly becoming ubiquitous as he takes everything in. White bedsheets, white walls, white closet. The light colour was juxtaposed with the dark blue of the carpet, and the chestnut wood of his desk. He could feel Stan’s eyes burning holes through his back as he picks up book after book when he didn’t know what else to do. “W-what?”

“You wanna go to the bathroom again?”

“W-what?” Bill repeats, less demanding than his first. Stan points to his own lips.

“You might want to check that out.”

Bill rushes out of the room like his life depended on it. And maybe it did, or he was just overreacting. A thousand thoughts ran through his head, variations of worst case scenario after worst case scenario. His lip was bleeding. He bruised his face. He has a scar on his cheek that can never fully heal.

The mirror showed him the bright fluorescent lighting of the bathroom before it showed him his face. There’s nothing different. It’s the same downturned, deep-set eyes, the same square face-shape, the same half-defined jaw line. But then he remembers Stan pointing at his lips, eyebrows raised and eyes looking up at him expectantly.

He hesitated for a moment. Then he opened his mouth. It was barely visible, the triangular indent disrupting the smooth run of his teeth. He _definitely_ won’t be going to the dentist anytime soon to get that fixed. He exits the bathroom, mulling over his mishaps. He passes by framed pictures, each holding either Stan or his parents through the years. Bill picks one up, inspecting the bright colours of a county fair mixing with Bev’s red hair, which had back then, apparently, reached her torso. Her arm was wrapped around Stan, a hand resting on his shoulder. 

Upon closer inspection, he sees it. Wires wrapped around his teeth, showing off bright yellow bands that would remind Bill of racing paper boats with Georgie on rainy days. He almost laughs, and runs back to Stan’s room.

He trips on the carpet again, to the amusement of Stan. Sock-clad feet pad into his vision, and he’s being hoisted up by warm, skinny arms paired with a chuckling laughter that Bill couldn’t help but join in. 

“Y-you d-didn’t t-tell me you had b-b-braces,” Bill says as his chuckles die down. Stan lies down on his bed and starts to fiddle with a necklace he had around his neck.

“You didn’t tell me it’s your birthday today,” Stan breathes, eyes scanning the ceiling. Bill sits down next to him, and Stan’s eyes flit over to him in mere nanoseconds, squinting and eyebrows furrowed like the mere action of sitting on his bed without permission had so deeply offended him. Bill stands back up, slowly placing distance between him and Stan. Stan sighs. “It’s fine, Bill.” He closes his eyes, two hands going to the necklace. “You can sit.”

“I d-didn’t think it m-mmmm… it mattered,” Bill says through bated breath. “P-people t-tend to f-f-forget.” 

“It matters, Bill.” Stanley starts picking at his shirt intently, lips pursing as he picks up little balls of lint from the fabric. “It’s your _birthday_.”

“No one’s really cared,” Bill says, non-stuttering, because he’s never doubted this very fact ever, because it’s all his parents ever let him say freely. He frowns. “H-how’d you even nnn…know?”

“Your grandfather, Bill. Also, I have Georgie’s number.” Stan sits up, eyes squinting again. “What kind of parent lets a seven-year-old have a phone?”

“M-mine,” Bill chuckles, pushing away his very short episode of melancholy. “I-it’s a necessity n-nowad-days, you k-know?” Stan continues glaring at his desk, fingers picking each other until red spots start forming on his skin. “S-stan?”

“Mm?” He says absently, fingers picking at each other even harder, peeling at skin that refused to budge. Bill wonders if he should reach out to stop him, but decides against it, unsure if it would be stepping over the boundaries Stan had. Stan looks at his hands blankly and sighs. “Bathroom. Sorry.” He stands and leaves, leaving Bill alone in Stan’s room. Bill opens his phone and texts Beverly, whose number he had gotten only a few days ago. Their conversations were already long, her natural charisma pulling Bill out of his shell.

_ 11:37 AM  _

_  
[Bill-bo Baggins]: hey bev can i ask u smthn _

_ [Bevvie ;0 ]: sure lmao ask ahead !!  _

_ [Bill-bo Baggins]: so stan, like, picks at his skin  
should i……stop him  _

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: oh :((_  
_did he seem ;; sad_  
_?_

_ [Bill-bo Baggins]: no ?  
a little out of it, ig  _

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: stop him_  
_where are ya’ll lol_  
_i’ll go to u for support !!_

_ [Bill-bo Baggins]: just in his room  _

_ [Bevvie ;0 ]: ohm wow OwO  _

_ [Bill-bo Baggins ;0 ]: what, you egg?  
*stabs u*  _

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: Nothing._  
_it just takes a rlly long time for Stan to let you even near his house lol_  
_what did you do to him u kinky fucc >:3_

_[Bill-bo Baggins]: first off,_  
_never use proper syntax again_  
_that was …. unnerving_  
_second, nothing i swear_  
_he’s just nice to me liek that_

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: Whatever you say, Billford._  
_W h a t e v e ry o us a y_  
_ANYWAYS_  
_b there in fibe_

_ [Bill-bo Baggins]: lol  
fibe  _

_ [Bevvie ;0 ]: HUSH MY SON LET ME PRETTY UP FOR MY BOY  _

Bill shuts his phone off, smiling to himself.

“Who was that?” Stan says, standing by the doorway. He walks to the bed and plops down next to Bill, trying to peer over his shoulder to get a look at his phone. 

“B-Bev,” he says. Stan shrugs and lies down again, hand slowly going back to his necklace. “She’s c-coming over, b-b-by the w-way.”

“Mm,” Stan hums as he adjusts himself, unable to get comfortable. “I’m exposing you.”

“I-if you t-think it really mmm…matters.”

“It does!” Stan looks at him, eyes flaring. “What’s with you?”

“I-I d-don’t know,” Bill says, his chest emptying, his feelings being laid out in front of him. “W-what’s w-with _you_?” 

“What’s with _me_?”

Bill shuts his mouth and thinks, for a bit. He thinks about the countless people he’s lost just because he couldn’t control himself. He thinks about the people that’s left him because of his emotional baggage. He thinks of talking too much and thinking too little and he thinks of his mother’s resentment towards his being for this very reason.

He’s hurt too many people, and maybe it’s time to learn from his mistakes.

“N-nothing,” he sighs, defeated. “Y-you’re right.”

“Thank you,” Stan says pointedly. He takes Bill’s fingers in his and looks up at him. “I’m sorry.” Bill takes note of the rough, peeling edges at the sides of his nails and the warmth of his fingers around his. The redness of his skin from picking at them obsessively and possibly more bad habits that he has and Bill is yet to discover. 

Stan was a mystery that Bill couldn’t wait to solve.

“T-tell me about your c-cat,” he says, trying to divert the topic.

“Cats.”

“E-excuse me?”

“I have four cats.” Stan lets go of Bill’s hand and stands up, gesturing for Bill to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha well his cat's name is edsworth and trust me there's a STORY TO THAT I SWEAR but more on that later. also did ya'll notice how bill's texting style changed wenk wonk hoho 
> 
> i love all of you! bls leave kudos or a comment they make my day <3
> 
> also ! b4 i forget, i have a tumblr, it's [@fr-eet](http://fr-eet.tumblr.com/) come say hi!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello i'm back bitchezz 
> 
> this chapter is short and sweet and sort of badly written. but i fought through stuff and worked hard just to get it done! so I'm hoping you like it :')

For the first few days, it doesn’t strike him as inevitable. The clock ticks at its pace, second-hand moving slowly with the wind whistling through the trees and the birds that ride with them.

Then he checks the calendar, and sees it. They were well into the last few days of July, and they’ll only have two weeks until it’s over. 

His mother comes along and reminds them all they’re leaving after the first week of August, which cuts his time shorter.

He decides to spend the last of his days in Derry with at least one of his friends around. Today he spends his time in Stan’s house, spending the day texting their group chat. It was oddly fun, as he could share little thoughts with Stan without having to text him or let the others hear.

But then again, why would he only keep things to Stan and himself?

_4:00 PM_

_  
[Bieberly]: fucc duys_

_[Mike on a Bike]: duys_

_[Bieberly]: SPARE ME THIS IS IMPROTNANT 1!! SO SHUT UT_

_[Stan]: …_

_[Bieberly]: i’m warning u staniel_

_[Stan]: I’m not saying anything. Ellipses mean silence_

_[Dick]: Omg stan didnt put a punctuation mark  
Ive always prayed for this day to come :’)  
_ Thank our lord and savior, goku

_[Benald]: I always thought it was naruto  
but richie was always a disgrace anyways_

_[Dick]: Eddie !!!! i’m being attacc’d_

_[Angle or debil]: Idk  
Its not an attack if ure just spreading the gospel_

_[Bieberly]: sick burn but BESIDES THAT  
Harry Potter’s birthday is in three days  
_ and bill stop ghosting

_[Stan]: Poor child.  
He just found out what date it is._

_[Bill Bill Bill Bill]: i dont wanna go home :((_

_[Mike on a Bike]: Awww_

_[Dick]: BUT WGAT ABOUT AUDRA_

_[Mike on a Bike]: Audra?_

_[Bieberly]: audra ??_

_[Benald]: Audra??_

_[Angle or debil]: Wait ur not dating stan?????_

_[Bill Bill Bill Bill]: exsqueeze me_

_[Stan]: lol what_

_[Dick]: GUYS HE DID IT AGAIN_

As Bill finishes up on reading Richie’s message, he turns his gaze towards Stan, who was glaring at his phone with some fiery passion Bill could only pin to hate. He laughs a little to lighten up the mood, and Stan drops the frown from his face and looks at Bill.

“Can you believe Eddie?” He huffs, dropping his phone on his bed. Bill shrugs.

“R-richie asked me if w-we were,” he says casually, switching apps and trying to find something interesting. “I f-figured he’d t-tell Eddie.”

“Oh,” Stan says, eyeing his phone again. “Good, I guess.”

“Haha,” Bill says, opening a stupid-looking snapchat article. “L-look at this.”

_4:20 PM_

_  
[Dick]: Lmao 420 everybody leave out milk and cookies for snoop daaaaawg_

_[Mike on a Bike]: My phone says it’s 4:21 tho what even is the point_

_[Bieberly]: ARE WE JUST GOINT TO SLEEP ON THE FACT THAT EDDIE THOUGHT BILL AND STAN WERE A THNIG_

_[Angle or debil]: Yeah we def are_

_[Benald]: so we’re going to sleep on the fact that it’s almost harry potter’s birthday too??  
[Bieberly]: ben this is why you’re the loml_

_[Dick]: Gei_

_[Mike on a Bike]: Wait where’s stan and bill_

_[Stan]: Hello, people of Derry._

_[Bill Bill Bill Bill]:_ _are-str8s-real.jpg_

_[Dick]: I may be half gay but thats kind of stupid  
“Do straight ppl even exist???” pls snapchat_

_[Benald]: wait did you read any further? maybe the title’s just misleading_

_[Bill Bill Bill Bill]: lol no way  
I’m eeleeturet_

_[Bieberly]: ???  
wut_

_[Stan]: He’s illiterate._

_[Dick]: :00  
Stanny !! thats no way to talk about yr boy toy_

_[Stan]: Why? That’s how Eddie talks about his._

_[Angle or debil]: No comment._

_[Bieberly]: aaaaanyways all that shit aside ya’ll wanna hang at the public pool?_

* * *

 

“W-why couldn’t we j-just go to the q-quarry?” Bill says, teeth chattering from the showers. He looks down at his friends, coaxing him to jump into the pool. “D-dozens of children use t-the pool as a b-bathroom, or–or s-some shit.”

“Relax, Bill, you’re starting to sound like Eddie,” Richie quips. Eddie smacks the back of his head, or at least tries to. From him floundering wildly underwater, his head sinking in and out of vision, and the rest of them being in the deep end of the pool, his fingers merely brushed Richie’s curls. At this, Richie immediately loses all interest in trying to get Bill to jump in.

“You’re so cute,” he says mockingly, and ducks underwater. Eddie starts to scream as he’s hoisted up into the air, Richie appearing from underneath him, laughing like a maniac. They cut themselves off from the rest of the group, Richie with his laughter and Eddie with his screams and demands. Bill’s sure he hears the lifeguard say they’re not allowed to do that.

Bill rolls his eyes, figuring it’s a waste to have already showered and not use the pool. 

“Attaboy!” Beverly whoops as Bill dips a toe into the water. He shudders, the temperature making his hairs stand on end. A hand grips around his ankle, and he’s pulled into the water by Mike. The other three laugh and Stan swims over to high five Mike. 

“R-remind me a- _again_ w-why we chose this o-over the–the quarry?”

“Sometimes,” Bev says, throwing her head back in melodramatic motion. Her hand lays gently on her forehead as Ben giggles beside her in adoration. “Things that are expensive,” she says and pauses to look at Bill in the eyes. “Are worse.”

Bill rolls his eyes. He’s beginning to be more like Stan, he thinks, as they both share a look of mutual displeasure. They laugh quietly at this.

“What Bev’s trying to say is,” Ben starts. “Coming to the quarry is like… a Weird Kid thing. The public pool is a… Normal Kid thing.”

“Normal Kid things are going to the beach and staying inside to play video games,” Stan says, voice quiet.

“No, I mean Normal Kid things on a budget.”

“Why is the quarry even a Weird Kid thing in the first place?” Mike asks, and Bill finds himself perking up to hear the answer.

“Well the only reason we go there is to be alone; to get away from the people here,” Bev provides. “It makes me feel like we really _are_ accepting the fact that we’ll always be the sucky kids at school, even in the summer.”

“But isn’t that the reason we’re all together in the first place?” Mike challenges. 

Bill looks around him, and begins to notice how different they are from all the other people. Families, mostly, playing games and having fun, splashing around to rid themselves of the heat. He looks back at his friends, huddled together and arguing over why they’re here and not at their usual spot.

He looks back, teenagers laughing and enjoying their summer. Lounging around on pool floaties, sipping on bottles of soda, or whatever cold, refreshing drink they could get their hands on. If they were normal…

If _he_ was normal, then he’d be doing that too.

But Bill had always led a less than conventional life, so he figures he’s had fifteen years to get used to it. Being fazed by the fact that his new friends don’t quite see themselves as normal kids shows that he’s not.

“Guys,” he interrupts quietly, and Bev, Mike, and Ben have their eyes on him immediately. “You d-do know this–this i-isn’t a t-t-thing worth f-fighting about, right?” 

“What do you mean?” Bev says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “We’re not fighting.”

“I mean,” Stan says, arms crossed and eyes looking sideways, a portrait of awkwardness. “You kind of are.”

“That wasn’t fighting, right Ben?” Bev asks, almost desperately. Ben shakes his head.

“Sorry, Bev,” he says. “It kind of…was.”

“Fine, whatever!” She throws her hands up in the air dismissively. “Let’s just try to enjoy the pool, okay?”

The two other boys follow her, leaving Stan and Bill by the edge of the pool. “Hey,” Stan says quietly. “Thanks for that.” He throws Bill a mellow smile, corners of his mouth pulling up ever so slightly. His eyes gloss over with the slightest hint of appreciation, or maybe it was just the summer sun painting him golden.

Whatever it was, it filled Bill with something indescribable.

“It’s…” he babbles, all words leaving his mind at the sight. “N-nothing.”

Stan laughs softly. “Whatever, Bill. We really dodged a bullet there.” He swims away from the edge, towards Beverly and the others, play-fighting with Richie. “I’ll race ya!” He calls, already well ahead Bill.

Bill follows, laughing as he shouts back at the unfairness. So he figures, as he sheds off the days of summer, chasing after a gold-stained boy and his friends, he’d really have it no other way.

This is what Summer is all about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no looks like someone's falling in love with the summer *ahem ahem* definitely not code for smthn else hehe
> 
> anyways ! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. I love you all ! <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're playing a dangerous game, Bill Denbrough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. wassup. I'm back. I'm alive. enjoy the show.
> 
> also sorry for the shit writing so far ;; i don't know what's wrong with me... I haven't been very inspired to write anything in bill's pov lately

His last full day in Derry is spent with Stan, much like last week, except they’re silent and solemn, drowning in goodbyes yet to be said. They’re sitting on Stan’s bed, backs pressed to the headboard and faces painted bright by the screen of Stan’s laptop.

Whatever Michael Scott was saying sounded foreign and fuzzy to Bill’s ears. He watches the sun outside, except he can’t, because it’s covered by clouds, dark grey bottoms reflecting on the palette of Derry. It’s about to rain, he guesses, as the wind blows by, whistling deeply through lips made of tree leaves.

“I’d buy that book,” Stan comments from beside him. Bill, busy staring off towards the window, hums in agreement, not knowing what he’s agreeing to. “Bill.”

“W-what? Yeah?” His gaze snaps back to the laptop, just in time to see Andy and Erin flirting with other people to throw their co-workers off. “Yes.”

“Look, it’s obvious you’re not enjoying The Office.” Stan closes his laptop and puts it by their feet. He faces Bill, who shifts his gaze to the space between them. “If you’re not really having fun, we can always stop.”

“No!” Bill says suddenly, startling both boys. He gathers himself and sighs. “I mean, n-no, I’m sss…sort of… y-yeah.”

“Yeah,” Stan says. “We could go outside, if you want.”

Bill looks outside again, specks of water already dotting the window pane. “I-it’s going t-t-to rain.”

“You want Bev to come over?” Stan tries again. Bill shakes his head. 

“D-don’t want to t-trouble h-her.”

“You wanna dance?” 

Yet Stanley Uris didn’t seem like the type to dance. He seems like the designated driver of the group, always there to round them up after the party. He seems like the type to lurk in the kitchen, sipping on soda and watches as everybody else has fun. Going to the party not to have fun, but just because his friends wanted to come and he didn’t really have plans.

Stanley Uris didn’t seem like the type to be loose enough to dance confidently.

“Y-you don’t dance,” Bill says. 

“I don’t,” Stan admits with a small smile. “But that’s why I only have roadtrip music.”

* * *

 

As it turns out, Stan’s definition of roadtrip music is anything you can dance to with only side-to-side sways and finger snapping. Maybe some clapping. 

It was halfway through I Want To Hold Your Hand by the Beatles when Bill decided to try his luck and spin Stan around. He couldn’t help it, with Stan looking him in the eyes wildly as he mouthed the lyrics with vigour more akin to Richie Tozier, and his stupid dancing that is so bad, it can only be rivalled by Bill himself. So as Stan badly sings “I want to hold your hand,” Bill actually takes his hand and pulls Stan toward himself, laughing as he does.

Bill forgets the spinning part, too enthralled with their far-from-perfect performance to do something. They’ve forgotten that they’d only wanted to dance with mere sways and snaps, too comfortable with each other already. They’ve forgotten the happenings of tomorrow hanging over their heads as they move carelessly, too deep in their laughter and happiness to even care.

With Stan in his arms, bright red and out of breath from all their merrymaking, the reality of the situation hits Bill like an avalanche. That he’d be leaving in less than ten hours, to return to less-adventurous California. Where he’d be back to his old friends, who never truly got him like everyone here did. Back to a girl, Audra, who might have been his only friend, and for whom he never really understood his feelings for.

He’d have no time to say goodbye to his friends tomorrow. They’d leave first thing in the morning. The memories he’d make today are the clearest ones he’d bring back home.

“Bill?” Stan says, interrupting his inner turmoil. “Everything okay?”

Bill thinks of hanging goodbyes and quiet moments. Ones he’d never enjoy, that he’d overthink at night, the scenes of a movie he’d lose sleep over.

“Movie,” he mutters. “Let’s just watch a movie.”

Stan, off-put by the smooth flow of the sentence, had no choice but to stop the music and nod his head.

* * *

 

The pattering of the rain on Stan’s window had somehow relaxed Bill, the sound mixing in with the movie. They’re huddled again, on Stan’s bed with their backs pressed to the headboard. Stan’s laptop was set precariously on Stan’s legs, turned to the right just a bit for Bill to see.

Neither of them, from the looks of it, were particularly focused on the movie, too thrown off by the happenings of a while ago. Bill uses this silence filled with the white noise of movie dialogue to think. Often dangerous, but what could go wrong, after all?

It brings him to Georgie, to Derry, to Richie, and upon thinking about Richie he thinks about the time he asked Bill if he and Stan were more than friends.

-

_They were skipping rocks at a pond. Bill hadn’t known it existed until Richie brought him there. It was empty and greenish, because this is Derry, and Derry never really did care of the state it’s in. It was just the two of them, and it admittedly did feel awkward, as it’s the first time he would be hanging out with anyone other than Stan alone._

_“You’re horrible at this,” Richie observes, as he throws a flat rock like it was second nature. It skips once, twice, three times and drops into the water with a plop. Bill purses his lips and picks up another stone. He tries to copy Richie’s curling sort of motion with his hand, and lets go of the rock. It falls into the water with no resistance. Richie laughs._

_“W-well I never r-really tried,” Bill says as he squats down with a huff. Richie sits beside him._

_“Hey, you know why I brought you here?”_

_“T-to make fun of m-me?” Bill pouts as he actually sits himself down and crosses his legs over each other._

_“Might as well be,” says Richie, voice muffled as he buries his face into his arms, rested over his knees. “But no. I’m really just here about Stan.”_

_“Haha,” Bill says, finding himself smiling giddily. He most likely doesn’t, but he must look like a smug cat right now. “W-what.”_

_“I didn’t really expect it to happen, you know,” Richie sighs. “When you came along. He’s completely gone for you.”_

_Bill’s eye twitches slightly. “W-what are you t-talking about?”_

_“You!” Richie looks at him. “And Stan! Like, I’ve known him for years and right now he still refuses to let me sit on his bed, much less go in his room. Then you.” Richie’s eyes are filled with something Bill’s only ever seen on Georgie. Amazement? Idolisation? He’s never really expected it to come from someone that isn’t his little brother. “You’ve only known him for three months and you’re already dating? Damn.”_

_Bill bursts out laughing._

_“What?” Richie tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Bill, I’m serious. How’d you do it?”_

_“N-no,” Bill keels over, arms clutching his torso as it starts to hurt from him laughing. “R-richie, b-believe me, I’d l-love the–the idea of…of m-me being able t-to do that, b-but no.”_

_“No?”_

_“W-we’re just f-friends.”_

-

He thinks it’s ridiculous, how often their friends mistake them for anymore than they are. So it hits him, quite pathetically late, why. Stan’s head rests on his shoulder, hair brushing over his neck, Bill’s head craned just the slightest bit to rest it over Stan’s. Their hands, tangled between them, as they so do every morning on their way to the quarry.

“Ah,” he says aloud, making Stan lift his head and look at him.

“Yeah, Bill?” He says, almost intent to find a distraction from the movie. Bill’s almost embarrassed, having to explain himself.

“N-nothing,” he says. “I j-just realised why people t-think of us as… more than f-friends.”

Stan rolls his eyes and goes back to his original position. “Tell me about it.”

Bill doesn’t. He retracts his hand and straightens his neck so his head leans back into the headboard. Stanley seems to focus hard on the laptop screen, almost glaring at it. As soon as Bill’s hand leaves his, he quickly crosses his arms over his chest and his mouth forms a hard pout.

When the movie starts rolling credits, Bill realises he’s missed around two hours of real life, too busy zoning out to pay attention to whatever. Stan sighs as the music plays and and fills the room’s silence. 

He turns his head so he’s looking up at Bill, and Bill makes the mistake of doing the same. Their faces were close. The lights shined in Stan’s eyes. The music faded into soft taps on a piano.

The ghost of rain wafts across the room and for a minute, maybe hours, everything is frozen. Stan’s gaze flickers to Bill’s lips, too fast for anyone else to catch, but Bill sees it. And he nods.

He leans down. He’s kissing Stan. There’s nothing much to it.

So Bill shouldn't be worried about the absence of New Year fireworks on his lips, the obvious lack of intent for the press of Stan against him. He knows he really shouldn't feel electricity coursing through his veins, that there should be no rush of energy between the two of them. It's supposed to be okay that he isn't finding any of the adrenaline that movies and books and stories upon stories speak of. He shouldn't be worried, because he doesn't like Stan and Stan doesn't like him. Not in that way, at least. But he is.

He's twisted with panic not with the feelings he doesn't find, but rather with the ones he does. For instead of the fiery, exciting passions people find when they kiss the person they supposedly love, he finds it safe, warm, and _right_.

Stan pulls away, and Bill almost chases after the feeling, but he restrains himself. He's not supposed to long for the feeling of his friend's lips against his, innocent and chaste as fifteen year olds do, but his stomach churns disgustingly with longing for the short-lived push of thin, chapped lips from just a few seconds ago. He’s about to run away.

But then Stan starts crying. His head drops to his hands and his breathing goes erratic. Forlorn sobs escape his lips through airy gasps, sending shivers down Bill’s spine that makes him feel like he’ll start to do the same. Bill places a shaky hand on Stan’s heaving back, calculating his next words like it means life or death. “H-hey,” he finally settles, reaching out to place a tentative palm on Stab’s knee. Yet Stan sobs louder. His gold-stained boy, painted in grey-sky tones and rain drops. It makes Bill shake.

“Bill,” Stan says, voice wavering with the tears lining his face. There is no more movie credit music. There is no more rain wafting in and out of the room. It was only them, and a kiss hanging over their heads joining goodbyes close to being said. And Bill is terrified. “Bill, I’m _gay._ ”

“Y-yeah?” Bill says stupidly. 

“And I kept insisting I’m not,” Stan’s voice is choked, and Bill puts an arm around him. “Then–then _that_ , and… it just sort of hits me today.”

“I-it’s okay.”

“What would my dad say?” Stan sobs. Bill pulls him closer, unsure of what to reply. “He’s going to hate me, Bill.”

“I mean.” Bill takes his other hand to wipe away Stan’s tears. “I d-don’t think so.”

Stan hides his face in his hands and shudders. “He will.”

“W-well you’re his s-son. He’ll n-never stop l-loving you.” Bill tries to smooth out the curls sticking to Stan’s sweaty forehead. “J-just breathe, okay?” He whispers. “I-it’s okay.”

“Then you’re leaving.” Stan grips Bill’s shoulder with intent. “So many things are happening at once.”

“I’ll c-come back,” Bill says, trying to reassure more himself than Stan. “I’ll come b-back and we’ll s-still be f-friends.”

“Ten months is a long time, Bill,” Stan continues to sob. “And all we’ll ever get from you is three.”

“Stan,” Bill takes Stan’s hand off his shoulder and grips it firmly in his. “W-we can still t-text. Ten m-months’ll b-be over before you know it. You’ll b-be okay, alright?”

“I guess.” Stan takes a deep breath and smiles. Soft and simple, reassuring. “So… I’m gay.”

“Yeahp.”

“Oh my god, I’m gay.”

“Yes, Stan.”

“Oh my god. Does that mean I have to speak like _that–_ You know what? Never mind.”

He stands, and Bill’s inclined to follow. “I’m gay,” Stan says, gaining confidence “I’m going to fall for boys.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to get married to a boy,” Stan says, smile growing and eyes getting lighter. “I’m going to build a house with him!”

“Yeah! G-go, Stan!” 

“We’re going to build a house, and–and, we’re going to get one of those stupid flamingo lawn stands!”

Bill doesn’t know how they got here, but Stan’s laptop is somewhere on the floor and they’re jumping on his bed, with whoops and cheers and goodbyes dissipating in the air around them. 

It was a rebellion. They were infinite.

“Stanley Uris! Keep it down up there!” Stan’s mom shouts. They stop jumping. They collapse in fits of giggles. 

“I s-should p-probably go,” Bill says, disappointed. Stan’s smile drops just the slightest bit. 

“You’re not going to ask about the kiss?”

“I-it’s not m-my business to.” Bill shrugs. Stan nods. They embrace, warm and soft as friends that say goodbye do. Bill’s oceans of fear about feelings in kisses pull apart as he leaves. “G-goodbye, Stan.”

“Goodbye, Bill.” 

As he exits the house he pulls out his phone and selects a number from his contacts. It rings, once, twice, three times. She picks up.

“Audra, holy shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so ends our first summer. Thanks for sticking around this far ! i'm so excited for the next one !! we'll have maybe one or two chapters about the school year and we come back to the losers ;0
> 
> btw that kiss was entirely "platonic" in the sense of "hey friend can i kiss you to see if i am a homo? yes? thank you" and wow that was sooo original *rolling eyes emoji*
> 
> comments and kudos? highly appreciated. So effing valid. 11/10 would love for it to happen


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Name three things Bill is not supposed to have when thinking about Stanley Uris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha this may be the best or the worst thing i've ever written for this fandom
> 
> also [a playlist bill might have i think](https://open.spotify.com/user/wkoj7hctolatnefttox3rss01/playlist/6vQeporDBigcLhDVOPZ7M9?si=7wB1sSMoSZ2zaG8aDTMfqg) there is like one filipino song but trust me it deserves its place there
> 
> enjoy this one, fellas, it's the schoolyear

Bill remembers when he was good at school things; at least better than how he’s doing right now. It frustrates him, how thrown off he is now that he isn’t in Derry. How he’d gotten so used to waking up at half past four and taking hikes through the woods, card games in bushes and jumping from cliffs.  ~~ _Soft kisses from golden boys and summer smiles in sepia tones._ ~~

He’s especially frustrated when he begins to consider how much he’s actually thought about his sexuality. There’s a small part of him that he’s never thought about before. His thoughts filled with Audra and Bev, all washed away because of a short-lived, innocent kiss with the boy across the street.

Stanley Uris, who talks to Bill’s grandfather, who gifted him a sketchbook barely hours after they’d met. Who showed him hidden secrets of the universe that, before he’d come to Derry, he’d never thought about twice. He smiles to himself and looks down at his empty notebook as he mindlessly runs his pen over it.

“Nice notes, Denbrough,” Audra snickers quietly from beside him. He looks over, slightly shaken, and back to the powerpoint, that had gone through so many slides, unnoticed by him and his daydreaming. In mild panic, he starts to take down as much as he can, though the words fly past in a hurricane as he could barely understand what they spelled out. Audra frowns. “I’ll let you copy mine later.”

He nods, heart lightening in gratitude as he relaxes his grip on his pen. With his newfound freedom, he lets his mind wander back to thoughts of soft lips on his, of being wanted, of being where he was meant to be all along.

There is grey sunlight filtering through the window, and the cold wash of an afterthought of rain lingering through the streets. There’s a weight beside him. Soft press of Stan against his lips. An epiphany. A farewell.

Yet it happened with a less rosy glow. The more he thinks about it, the more his vision is painted rose. Giddy butterflies fly around in his stomach and the crooked smile on his face grows wider as he thinks of rings of soft brown hair and melting brown eyes smiling at him.

He doesn’t really notice, nor does he actually care, when the rest of his class leaves him for their next one. Audra stands over him, an eyebrow raised as Bill’s smile only grows wider when he realises he’s been daydreaming for an hour.

Audra falls into rhythm beside him as they leave the classroom. “You’re going to fail if you keep zoning out in class.”

“D-doesn’t matter,” he replies, already slowly slipping out of reality. “I can s-ssss…still b-b-borrow your n-notes.”

“How do you know I’ll keep letting you borrow my notes?”

“Y-you won’t,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You l-l-love me t-too much.”

Audra stops in the middle of the hall and glares. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” Bill laughs nervously. They keep walking.

“Yeah, this is mine. See you lunch, and Patty…?”

“W-will b-be there,” he assures. Audra smiles, wide and bright, and bids Bill goodbye with a joking kiss on the cheek. “Ew,” he laughs, pretending to wipe away her affection.

“If you think you’re getting Stan that way, you’re mistaken,” is the last thing Bill hears from her before she fades into her classroom. He rolls his eyes, a habit he’d picked up over the summer, and continues down the hall to his own classroom.

He takes his front row seat and…forgets. What did you do when you got to a classroom, again? He looks towards the seat two rows behind him, hoping to find what he’s looking for.

There she was, looking back at him. On her desk lay a notebook, a pen. Her hand had a phone, with bright blue earbuds connected and one of them tucked into her dark, wiry hair. “What,” she mouthed, and Bill purses his lips and shrugs.

Yeah, Bill remembers when he was good, or at least passable, at academic things. But he goes and fucks it all up by meeting new people and rebuilding his whole life around them. So, Bill Denbrough supposes, he always was in love with everyone he meets.

Yet he never expected to dive deeper into warm, almond eyes and be caught in a honey-dense haze of sunshine-golden hair and summer smiles. And, he comes to, with a lopsided grin taking over his features, that he wouldn’t trade that experience for the world.

A hand comes down with a sheet of paper on his desk.

But maybe for his grades.

Lunch comes by and Audra and Patty are already huddled together, trading food (and, knowing them, small, flirty kisses to hint at something for later). There’s a slight pain forming, swirling around pins on his temples, probably for thinking too hard about how pathetic he is. With how little he’s actually trying, he guesses he deserves it.

There’s very much a lot of things to remind him of his academic failure. The groupchat of his friends back in Derry are filled with them panicking about tests then celebrating when they learn they passed. Stanley’s attempts at making jabs at Richie are thwarted when Richie’s report card spells out perfect As.

_‘But hey, good job being second,’_ Richie’d replied back at the boy, and they’d all have a good laugh about it, except Stan.

_‘I swear to god,’_ he would tell Bill in private.  _‘The only reason he’s always on the way to being valedictorian is because he does sooo much better in PE.’_

Bill would struggle to keep conversation, because all he could think about was that he’s the biggest failure out of all his friends. That all he can think about was art projects and unfinished stories and that secret painting of that golden boy across the street he has stashed behind papers and books.

“Anything the matter, Bill?” Says Patty as she finally lets go of Audra, both of them red-faced and smiling giddy. Bill tries to blink away the bitterness shrouding his eyes at the sight of them.

“I’m f-failing,” he groans as he covers his face with his hands. “I k-keep zoning out l-lately.”

Patty frowns sympathetically. Audra just giggles knowingly.

* * *

_3:30 PM_

_ [Bill]: hhhhhh I’M FAILURE !!!  _

_[Nightingale]: Aww.  
No you aren’t. _

_[Bill]: oh staniel_  
_ what i would give for ur nativity  
NAIVETY _

_[Nightingale]: Pft.  
What’s the matter? _

_[Bill]: I got handed my maths test today  
i FAILED_

_ [Nightingale]: Again?  _

_[Bill]: ofc_  
_ show me ur cats   
i want 2 feel god_

_ [Nightingale]: Kinky  _

_ [Bill]: ffs stanley  _

_[Nightingale]: Haha.  
ily too, Bill. _

Feelings. That’s what he’s caught.

* * *

 It’s a Tuesday today, meaning Bill has to go to sleep early so he can wake up on time tomorrow. But he tosses and turns on his bed. He checks his phone, charging beside him, every five minutes. Maybe one of his friends couldn’t sleep and decided to text back. Yet all he could see are goodnights, talk to you laters, and Audra’s see ya tomorrow.

Running out of options, he closes his eyes tightly and tries to fall asleep.

It overtakes him like he’s being slowly submerged into molasses.

_ It was hot. Red hot. _

_ He’s back in Stan’s pure white room, tainted pink like the sunlight’s streamed through red stained glass. Every move he makes is fuzzy and almost like he’s made of some wispy, translucent smoke. The corners of his vision are tinted whiter than the rest of everything, blurring into every detail like a flashback filter in low-budget soap operas. _

_ “Bill,” Stan says from beneath him, voice high-pitched and breathy. His spindly fingers move from Bill’s thighs to his neck, and Bill’s breath hitches as he looks down. Sweaty, red, and hair sticking to the sides of his face. Absolutely stunning. _

_ It isn’t until he looks further south that Bill absolutely loses it. Stanley was shirtless and glistening, with his neck littered with red. “Oh, god…” he breathes out, but Stan pulls him down and smashes their faces together. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or why Stanley is suddenly so proficient at kissing, but he rolls with it and lets his eyes close as he kisses back. _

_ Bill grinds down on him, the friction causing heat to pool at his stomach. Stanley moans, he fucking moans, and the sound was so perfect, Bill finds himself almost letting one out too. “Fuck,” he breathes out when Stanley lets go of him. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” _

_ Stan laughs breathily in response. His skin flushes red, or at least becomes redder, and Bill’s knees go weak at the sight. Stan’s hand trails down Bill’s bare chest and attempts to tug his pants down. Stan frowns and whines when it doesn’t. _

_ “Not today,” Bill finds himself saying. Stan pouts and makes a dissatisfied noise. Bill laughs, leans down, and kisses him gently. Stan rolls his eyes, but a smile starts to grow on his face. He puts his hands on the sides of Bill’s face and kisses him again, just as soft and gentle as Bill did. Bill straightens his legs and balances himself with his hands on Stan’s hips. _

_ He rolls his own to bring back the friction from before. Stan lifts his head from their kiss and mewls. _

_“Harder, Daddy.”_

“WHAT THE F–”

And that’s when Bill falls out of his own bed in California, suddenly aware of his own age and where he is and who he isn’t with. He’d woken up in cold sweat with something that’s not supposed to be there when one thinks about Stanley Uris.

* * *

_6:07 AM_

_[Bill]: OHMYGOD  
I FELL OUT OF BED _

_[Nightingale]: Hahaha.  
Why? _

_ [Bill]: if i tell u you’re not allowed to get mad  _

_ [Nightingale]: No promises.  _

_ [Bill]: okay then i can’t tell you  _

_[Nightingale]: Ugh._  
_ Fine.  
I won’t._

_[Bill]: lol good_  
_ anyways i had a weird dream  
any other details will not be mentioned aside from you were there and it ended with_

_[Nightingale]: ?  
What? _

_[Nightingale]: BILL_  
_ ENDED WITH WHAT???  
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST BILL DON’T DO THIS_

_[Bill]: lol sorry i like suspense_  
_ anyways  
it ended with you saying…_

_ [Bill]: hARdEr DaDdY  _

_[Nightingale]: What the fuck._  
_ WHAT THE FUCK.  
YOU’RE JOKING, RIGHT?_

_ [Bill]: god, i wish  _

_[Nightingale]: I’m breaking our streak.  
You were my first and my last. _

_[Bill]: haha stan  
staaaaaan _

_[Bill]: oh my god you can’t be serious_  
_ Stanley :(  
I’m sorry._

* * *

  _9:30 AM_

_[Shitty Richie]: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHA_  
_HHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAH_  
_ HAHAHAHAHAHHHHHAH  
ABJSXNSAXBAKSNXALKSN_

_[Bill Buttlicker]: sigh  
r u done? _

_[Shitty Richie]: …_  
_No_  
_ AHAHHAAHAHAHHAAHAAAHSJHHXDKJS  
Okay now i am_

_[Bill Buttlicker]: okay  
what’s so funny_

_ [Shitty Richie]: HARDER DADDY  _

_ [Bill Buttlicker]: :’(  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is as close as i will willingly get to smut. no further comments.
> 
> comments and kudos are very very appreciated! thanks <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mmmmm joosy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy pride month! here's a thing i didn't edit bc it was very personal

“F-fuck,”Bill groans to Audra as they wait for their bus to come. “I k-keep forgetting t-to tell you.”

“About?” She says as she scrolls through her phone for texts from Patty, maybe. Bill sighs and pulls out his own phone.

“L-long sssss…story short,” he says tightly. “S-stan’s mad at me.”

There’s a small pause before Audra puckers her lips and smiles smugly. “Understandable.”

“T-that was un-un-unnecessarily rude,” Bill chastises. She laughs, the sound cutting through the thick air with a tingling chime. No wonder Patty’s so lost in her, with her addicting personality, and her charming sense of humour. The fact that she’s so comfortable with herself and how they still stayed friends when fifth grade Bill “confessed his undying love for her” (or at least how she puts it, just to tease Bill).

“You should know by now I will find every chance I can to flame you.”

“Is t-this because of Patty ssss…saying you’re bad at r-roasting people?”

“What?” Audra says, face scrunching up in some sort of held-in laughter. “No.” Bill raises an eyebrow. “Okay, fine, yes.” The bright yellow vehicle comes screeching to a halt in front of them, and the door opens. The two climb in and find a seat near the back. “Why’s Stan mad at you, anyways?”

Bill looks around the bus, where no one was paying attention to them. He decides not to take that risk. He gestures for Audra to come closer. 

“I d-dreamt I h-had sss…sex w-w-with him,” he whispers into her ear, sinking at the absurdity.

“What,” Audra whispers back in disbelief. She purses her lips and scrunches her face. She does that when she thinks. “How was it?”

“W-well…” Bill ponders the thought. _How was it?_ “I d-don’t think t-that’s how sex g-goes. B-but then again, w-w-what would I know?” He laughs a bit before continuing. “I’ve n-never had it.”

“Well duh, you’re like, fifteen.” Audra scrunches her face again. “Come to think of it, we’ve never had sex ed for gays.”

Bill laughs as he thinks about a stupid scene from a stupid show. 

“Bill Denbrough, whatever you’re thinking, stop it now,” she chastises. “So, what, you _told_ Stan?”

“N-no!” Bill says incredulously. “I-it’s about s-something he said i-in it.”

“Oh, God,” Audra groans. “What was it?”

Bill pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and scrolls until he finds what he needs. He hands it to Audra, who, after reading, laughs hysterically, yet still prompting no attention to head their way.

“That was… worse than I thought,” she says breathlessly. “Sorry, pal. Can’t help ya there.”

* * *

_7:03 AM_

_[Bill]: come on, stan  
blease talk to me_

_[Bill]: you can’t rlly be /that/ mad_

_[Bill]: are you?  
oh god, you are_

_[Bill]: look i’m sorry i made you uncomfortable alright  
but it’s been a whole day_

_[Bill]: it’s not that serious, dude_

“You do know how clingy you sound, right?” Patty comments after reading the texts. “You gotta learn how to keep to yourself sometimes.”

Bill glares at his own phone to tune her out. He’s staring, and waiting, and hoping, hoping, really, that it will buzz and it would say _Nightingale_ on his lock screen.

He thinks he’d cry if that actually happened.

“A-anyways, I n-need a tutor n-now…”

* * *

_9:34 AM_

_[Bill]: please talk to me._  
please.  
i know it hasn’t been that long  
but i miss you

_[Bill]: knowing that you’re mad at me hurts even more_

* * *

 

“Okay, so you basically think of it like…”

Audra explaining chemistry to him was mere buzzing to his ears. There are words, they should make sense, but Bill just wasn’t there. In his head, he’s running through every possible reason why he is in the wrong. Every possible reason why Stanley could be so mad at him. His mind would sometimes run towards something else, like that new movie coming out, but inevitably he’s back to Stan.

A paper is slipped under his fingers. “Here,” Audra instructs. “Try these out.”

Reluctantly, he grabs a pencil and tries to carve out some sensible answers. 

_Numbers with letters_. Right. 

“You done?” Audra says, without even a minute passing. “Typically people are done by now.”

“Not everyone likes Algebra, Audra,” Patty informs from beside them. She doesn’t look up from the book she’s reading as she eats her lunch. “He wasn’t even listening.”

Audra glares at him, flashing deadly venom in her eyes. Bill sinks in his seat and drops the pencil. “I’m ssss…sorry. I’m— I’m a w-wreck.”

“You know, it’s okay to get all caught up in someone,” Audra says, voice mellow and face looking down as if she was holding more things back than she’d want to let on. “But if you’re going to stop trying at everything else in life because of him, then it’s like saying we aren’t that important to you.”

“I a-am trying!” He says, rather loudly. Heads turn, but seeing as it’s only average Bill Denbrough, whose group of friends are also particularly loud, they turn back to untouched lunches and abruptly stopped conversations. “W-why are y-you just r-reducing my character t-t-to sss…some, some love-struck fool?”

And, though it is hurtful, it’s a change. From his usual, _Why can’t they see me as more than my stutter?_ to… this. Whatever this is. Lovestruck Bill can’t handle his shit now that he has eyes for a pretty boy with, as he soon learned, OCD. Bill can’t focus on is classes because he’s too busy thinking of his summer boy, and being there for his bests and worsts. Bill can’t keep up with the rest of the world because he’s held back by his own feelings.

And now he doesn’t know which hurt more, being reduced to a stutter, or a fool.

His eyes sting at the thought. He quickly leaves the table, figuring he has enough time to relax himself in the bathroom before class starts. The hallways are empty, of course, so he bumps into no one on his way. He enters and locks the stall door.

Was he really trying? Was he really more than his own feelings? Was he now just an extension of love for Stan?

He doesn’t even know anymore. His quickening breaths fill the empty bathroom. The lights are brighter than they should be. His mind overtakes him.

His tears bequeath him.

* * *

_[No new messages.]_

* * *

Bill shows up to his class with red eyes and a runny nose. He’d used his shirt to wipe off his face, and would now feel sorry for any person that might accidentally brush against him. There’s residue of his earlier goings on in his eyes, and he’s surrounded by too many people to pull off an eye wipe without being questioned (internally, by them, maybe). 

For once, he actually took down notes. He still didn’t actually bother to listen, as he never actually retained any information said in his general vicinity. His pen marks are more than just ink, carving through to the other side of the paper and the next page after that. He groans quietly when he takes a peek at the back to see his handwriting embossed backwards. 

Class goes by with him taking his anger out on his notes.

He doesn’t really recall time passing by so fast, or how he spent the whole hour writing down about four pages worth of notes, but at this point he didn’t really care. He just wanted today to end. He just wanted to go curl up in his bed and cry himself to sleep.

As he gets out of his seat his mind reminds him of his next class. He glares at the thought of having to sit next to Audra.

But he asks himself if he’s really mad at Audra, or just being thought of as less than he is. 

He wavers in his steps as he thinks about how much of a prick that makes him. His hands start to tingle. His lips quiver. But he’s determined. So he balls his hands into fists and purses his lips and marches towards his next classroom. He sits down, and before he gets a chance to mull over his situation, Audra scrambles to her seat beside him.

He doesn’t know what happened after that, as he’d pulled out his notebook and started to pretend he was writing down ideas, but he rides the bus next to someone he barely knows the name of.

* * *

_6:33 PM_

_[Bill]: Stan_  
stan pls  
stanny

_[Bill]: dude  
it’s not that bad_

_[Incoming call from Bill.]_

_[Bill]: ANSWER MY CALL, MAN  
you’re seriously mad at me over something i can’t control?_

_[Incoming call from Bill.]_

_[Bill]: come on stan answer my call_

_[Bill]: i don’t even call much bc of you-know-what!!_  
Ur giving me rlly bad anxiety  
Stanley I will cry pls stop being mad

 _[Nightingale]: What?_  
I’m not mad.  
Your just imagining things.

_[Bill]: …  
you’re not stanley_

_[Nightingale]: Uh,  
Yes, I am._

_[Bill]: the Real Stanley would know better than to use the possessive form of you rather than the contraction of you are_

_[Nightingale]: Nerd  
Youre such a nerd Bill_

_[Bill]: Richie  
Why do you have stan’s phone _

_[Nightingale]: Wtf  
How do you even know its me_

_[Bill]: I have my reasons to suspect so_

_[Nightingale]: OKAY fine_  
He was on it too much  
Everyone else was feeling sort of offended when hes on his phone while we’re hangin out  
You know he started crying in the bathroom when i took it and shoved it down my pants

_[Bill]: down ur dick?_

_[Nightingale]: You know me so well_

_[Bill]: when did u take it_

_[Nightingale]: Whenever stan said hed break ur strek_

_[Bill]: You better die in the next three seconds or I’m coming for you myself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! they give me the will to continue this thing :')


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My muse has returned, and he has painted all I see in soft red hues, and filled my throat with a garden of sunflowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> noice. toit.

It took him six hours. 

Audra _and_ Patty aren’t talking to him. He has no other friends, unless he counts acquaintances he’s met because of the two. Tomorrow would be hell if he has to sit eight hours straight next to a total stranger. He presumes he’d go crazy, the thoughts of the many ways this could have went overtaking him like dark over day. At this rate, he’d be even less focused than he was with Stan. 

His thumb hovers over the send button.

_I’m sorry, audra_ , it said, simple and sweet.Bill couldn’t think of anymore to put. Did she deserve an explanation? Him saying Richie took Stan’s phone and Audra wasn’t right, Bill was just wrong?

He sounded stupid in his head. It’s been six hours since he typed in that apology. His heart pounds in his chest as he sits alone in his room, eyes rereading the simple _I’m sorry_ for spelling mistakes.

That’s what he thinks he’s doing, at least.

His hands buzz and his fingers feel weightless. _Press it_ , he can almost hear Audra taunting him. _Press it, coward._ Yeah, he is. But why? There’s no reason to be afraid of apologising to your best friend, right?

He almost jumps when a message from Audra appears.

_12:27 AM_

_ [Audzz]: Hey i know you’re mad at me and all? _  
_But gdi i can’t ask patty this question_  
_Do you think a manipulation kink is a thing??_  
_Like someone does a thing and you go “ah i tricked you into doing that”_  
_And they go “hhhhhh you’re making me sooo horny right now”_

_ [Billy Bonka]: thank fucking god  
i thought YOU were mad at ME  _

_ [Audzz]: Gay  
That’s gay  _

_ [Billy Bonka]: you’re not so ironed out flat urself  _

_ [Audzz]: Thanks  
Was it the plaid or catching me and patty making out in your bathroom  _

_ [Billy Bonka]: i wouldn’t call what you were doing making out  
but it was definitely the plaid  _

_ [Audzz]: okay virgin what would you call it then  _

_ [Billy Bonka]: smooshing ur lips together trying not to be awkward  
and ohgod… have you and patty…?  _

_[Audzz]: CHRIST NO_  
_WE’RE FIFTEEN, BILL_  
_I love patty but i am a good christian girl and i do nOT condone underage_ ;;

_ [Billy Bonka]: catholic can confirm  _

He breathes out a sigh of relief. The heaviness that grew in his heart lightened with the newfound realisation that Audra Philips could never quite hold a grudge. At least not one like Patricia Blum does.

The weight returns as he thinks of how he’s going to deal with Patty. His fingers start to buzz and numb, irritating heat presses against his back. Oceans and oceans of doubt come, not getting rid of the heat, but drowning Bill back into the grave of self doubt he’s dug himself into.

It’s half past twelve. He goes to sleep, wanting to be rid of the convoluted plans he starts to form to get Patty back. 

He falls into a dreamless sleep, an immersive sort of blink that dips him in dark waves of slow motion. He opens his eyes seamlessly to his phone blaring the default alarm tone. 

And a text.

_6:00 AM_

_[Patty]: Audra’s being annoying_  
_and ig I’m not even mad @ u anyways_  
_so like_  
__ _forgiveness or whatever_

He doesn’t bother replying. Only lets the oceans settle into lakes and the tingling at his fingertips wear down into nothingness. Guess his best friend saved his dumb ass a second time. Just as easy as flipping a switch, he falls into his morning routine.

Dress up. _Good morning, Georgie_. Grab cereal. Leave.

But as always, it’s a blur of the blue hues of his walls.

“Hey,” Audra greets, voice breathless and smooth in the morning. She falls into step beside Bill as they walk to the bus stop. “Patty text you?”

“Y-yeah,” Bill mutters out as he stops right beside the pole announcing the bus stop. “S-she’s not r-really mad?”

“You know her,” Audra sighs, wistfully daydreaming about soft, tan skin and dark, curly locks. “She doesn’t care about minuscule things.”

Bill looks at his own shoes with a small grin starting to form on his lips. His next words are butchered by his tongue, of course, but he could care less, eyes expectant of Audra’s response. 

“W-what’s it like?” He says, the corners of his lips tugging up as he thinks of the centre of his own affection. “B-b-being in l-love?” _Do you find yourself lost in honey hues, too? Are you enthralled with the rays of summer splattering gold flecks on a canvas of dark brown threads?_

And so many more things he had to say, waxing poetic about the boy that shined with the summer sun. So many things, all tied back behind his tongue.

“It’s so many things at once,” she muses, standing still with her eyes closed. She rocks herself on the balls of her feet, head bouncing to a rhythm Bill can only imagine. “It’s like…”

She cuts herself off on similarities and connections she draws only in her head. A smile plays across her lips, and a glint in her eyes like a bonfire in the night sparks the air. “It’s more than I can put into words, Bill.” The bright yellow coat of their school bus cuts across the street, and the doors open with a _whoosh_.

And, somehow, he gets the smile that’s planted itself on Audra’s lips.

* * *

Stan got his phone back after a week. Bill didn’t care how much Richie complained (apparently Stan had “bitched and bitched,” and even dug his nails into the palm of Richie’s hand), he just cared that Stan was back.

Stan was back, and he wasn’t mad at Bill.

_6:27 PM_

_[Nightingale]: I’M BACK, BITCH  
GET THAT FUCKING STREAK RUNNING_

And though his heart was running a thousand miles a minute, Bill replies some distant fashion. Simple and not too overexcited, exactly how a _friend_ should be.

_ [Bill]: heyy  
you’re on a lotta energy today  _

_[Nightingale]: Haha, yeah._  
_You won’t believe how close I was to pushing Richie down the stairs._  
__ _I had to get Eddie to help me sanitise my phone thrice._

_ [Bill]: wow lmao  
sounds like u had an eventful week  _

_ [Nightingale]: I had an awful week.  
But it’s better now.  _

_ [Bill]: lol why  _

_ [Nightingale]: I’m talking to you. :)  _

His heart comes to a screeching halt. He swears it skips a beat as it does, and griping pain spreads around his chest, like a rope tying around his ribcage. He scrambles for a reply, his brain about tongue-tied as he usually is.

_ [Bill]: haha n0ice  
toit  _

_ [Nightingale]: Pft.  
Anymore dreams of me, you kinky ass?  _

_ [Bill]: nah i hope not _  
_glad u got your phone back tho_  
_you have no idea how crazy i went thinking u were mad at me_

_ [Nightingale]: I have a pretty good idea._  
_Scrolling up can solve many mysteries._

He has no idea what Stan did, but the rope around his heart transfigures into butterflies. They swarm his chest, filling it with the light, fluttering feeling of giddiness. So, Bill Denbrough figures, Stanley is simply magic. 

_ [Nightingale]: So, halloween is coming up.  
Wanna wear matching costumes?  _

_ [Bill]: sure  
side note,, did anyone put you up to this  _

_ [Nightingale]: If you count me as ‘anyone,’ then yeah. _  
_So if we’re doing this,_  
_You have any ideas?_

_ [Bill]: wait why are we doing this _  
_we’re not even seeing each other this halloween_  
_lmao_

_ [Nightingale]: At least you can tell your friends you had someone to match with…? _  
_Maybe?_  
_Tell me one thing that isn’t good about this._

_ [Bill]: well uh _  
_i don’t think friends wear matching costumes???_  
_see this is why people think we’re dating_

_ [Nightingale]: And?  _

_ [Bill]: wot  _

_ [Nightingale]: Bill, no one cares. _  
_You’re kind of like my closest friend now?_  
_Pathetic, but I at least want something to celebrate that._

Bill’s fully convinced his heart stopped working altogether. He simply stares at his screen, rereading and rereading the conversation. Matching costumes. You’re kind of like my closest friend.

_Better now, I’m talking to you._

This is unnaturally nice of Stan. All his days in Derry, Stan was… accommodating. He was sarcastic. Quiet. A mystery Bill couldn’t quite get all the clues to solve. He was fun. He was nice, in a subtle way. He’ll hold your hand when he isn’t very fond of physical contact. He’ll bring you places you later learn to be secret. He’ll tell you things he’s never told anyone before.

Stan, to figure out he was being nice, you’d have to see a little further into the future to learn what he has and hasn’t done with other people.

_ [Bill]: so like _  
_is someone else dictating ur every move_  
_that doesn’t seem like a very Stan thing to say_

_ [Nightingale]: Um, _  
_Okay, Bill._  
_If you didn’t want to wear matching costumes with me, you could’ve just said so._

And Bill couldn’t understand. He couldn’t understand how his head, usually overflowing with words and verses and multitudes of the same thoughts over and over run dry at a boy he can only describe as golden. He couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just accept what was given to him, instead of thinking it was a trick of some sort. He couldn’t understand why he refused to type an explanation as to why he would question Stan being “nice,” if that’s even the word for it.

But then again, Bill Denbrough never quite understood himself like others did.

He gets called down to dinner, and has no choice but to leave Stan unanswered.

_8:57 PM_

_[Bill]: waiiiiit no i do_  
_as for ideas_  
__ _wanna go as vines_

_ [Nightingale]: You know, _  
_For a second there I thought you really DIDN’T want to match costumes with me_  
_Thanks, pal._

_ [Bill]: lol wtf _  
_pal_  
_i have literally never heard anyone say that_

_ [Nightingale]: I bring a lot to the table.  _

_ [Bill]: 11/10 would date  _

_ [Nightingale]: I fucking wish.  _

Bill really thinks he died and went to heaven. Unintentionally flirting with Stan sent shivers down his spine and regret coursing through his veins. He puts a hand to his mouth as his feet are left numb. Bill Denbrough feels his youth pass by, and his hair grow white from the sheer pain of embarrassment.

Shit. He can’t find it within himself to function properly.

_[Nightingale]: Anyway, yeah, let’s go as vines._  
_Which one do you want?_

_ [Bill]: I WANT A CHURCH GIIIIRL TO GO TO CHURCH  _

_ [Nightingale]: AND READ HER BIBLE  
Amusing, but no.  _

_ [Bill]: sud  
I want to see my little boy?  _

_ [Nightingale]: I can finally bring my cat for halloween. _  
_Bless._  
_But what will you dress up as?_

_ [Bill]: i can just wear a shirt that says “i want to see my little boy”  _

_ [Nightingale]: You’ll look lame. _  
_Zach stop?_  
_You can dress up as Zach._  
_I’ll be the police officer._

_ [Bill]: cuff me officer UwU _  
_…_  
_don’t block me_

_ [Nightingale]: I am so close, Bill. _  
_SO. CLOSE._  
_Watch yourself. =_=_

_ [Bill]: BLEASE STAN  
but what if i want to be the police officer  _

_ [Nightingale]: Fine, then.  
I haven’t worn a beanie in a loooong time.  _

_ [Bill]: :00 send pics  _

_ [Nightingale]: Well, duh.  
How else would people know we match?  _

_ [Bill]: oh?  
OH   _

But then again, it’s hard to function properly when you’re caught within the tangled mess of feelings for a summertime friend. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading this far!! comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood red ooze of passion from my mouth. Save me now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> realising three days after posting the previous chapter that i accidentally posted part of this too ;; but well i took it out anyways lol so w/e

October comes to sweep away the teenaged angst of September. Richie, naturally, greets it with a screaming voice message of “Time to wake up that guy from green day!” with the background acoustics of his laughter. One thing October didn’t sweep away were the leaves on the street that Bill and his friends went out of their way to step on, no matter how old they get.

As well as the trees starting to shake off their tresses of orange to paint the roads the bright colours of autumn, orange and black accessorise houses and lawns of over-excited families. They make Bill think of plans with Stanley and the dark blue costume he’s stashed in his mind. Every skeleton or zombie vampire he passes by on the way to school brings a smile to his face.

He never really noticed (or he has, just never actually cared) until Audra brought it up.

“Hey,” she deadpans. Bill jumps, scared out of his own skin with her leaning over his shoulder to look out the window. Blurs of orange and dull, off-white paint streak their view. “You seem really caught up with something out there.”

“I’m n-not,” he says, eyes drifting back to the halloween decor and mind losing itself to dumb conversations and youthful plans. “J-just thinking.”

“That’s a first,” she giggles, obviously satisfied with herself with the way she doesn’t try to hide her snort. She puts her hands down to grip the edge of the seat, and immediately crumples her face.

“What?” Bill says. Audra scrunches her lips and pulls them to one side of her face before she lifts her fingers from the grey seat. 

“Chewing gum,” she groans, a displeased look transparent on her features. “But whatever,” she sighs before digging into her backpack for her bottle of hand sanitiser. “You got your costume for halloween ready?”

“N-no,” Bill smiles sheepishly as he finally looks away from the window. “B-but I have an idea.” 

“What is it?”

“L-like…” He pauses for a thought, unsure if he should be saying it aloud. “It’s a v-vine.”

“Uh huh,” she says, spraying a generous amount of lavender scent on her palms. She clicks the cap back on and drops it carelessly into her bag. “Can you be anymore specific?”

“Z-zach stop?”

She puts on a lopsided grin and pushes her hair back. “You couldn’t have chosen a funnier one?”

He rolls his eyes at her playful tone and turns back to the window. His eyes close and his thoughts flow like rivers. Finally, he reaches Stan, back in Derry and probably walking to his school. He’d walk there with Richie and Eddie, maybe, then join the others around the courtyard. Did he wake up early to go birdwatching? Did he wander by doors and light-switches and wait for someone to urge him forward?

Did he ever think about Bill?

Bill knows he thinks about Stan. From the first day he saw him, as he looked for inspiration that came like an explosion of colours when Georgie had pointed to a curly-haired boy with an embroidered kippah. When he gave Bill a sketchbook just as they met, apparently having the intent to stop by the Big House after hanging out with Bev and the others to give Bill that gift. When his eyes glittered with gratitude at the public pool.

Bill supposes it was all these little things that filled his heart with the soft-edged sensations of a warm hand in his and a golden glint in his eye. And he could never have been more thankful for Derry, Maine, and its saving grace.

His indulgence is uninterrupted when Audra pulls him out of the bus and towards school, practically sprinting towards a familiar figure standing near the stairway. She gives Patty a kiss on the cheek, almost intentionally missing her lips by mere centimetres. They both flush red, and Bill’s heart soars when it reminds him of the blanched white walls of Stan’s room and the thump of rain against glass. (He also thinks of end-credit music and closed eyes with lips on his, but he’d rather die than admit that to himself.)

The mention of his name aloud is enough to snap him out of his love-glazed trance.

“Yeah, Bill’s going as the Zach Stop vine,” Audra says as her hand slides away from his arm and left to rest on the strap of her backpack. “Wait.” She stops, leaving Bill reeling as he almost crashes into her. “How are you even gonna do that?”

“Obviously he’s gonna dress up as Zach,” Patty informs as she tugs Audra back into motion. “You know, white shirt, beanie?”

“A-actually.” He quickens his pace to settle himself beside them. “I’ll b-be the p-police officer.”

“But how are people going to know it’s the vine?”

He shrugs. “I-if it helps, I’m matching with sss…Stan.” He wants himself to believe that he didn’t phrase it like that to draw the attention towards the idea of him and Stan. “W-what are you two going as?”

“Daphne and Velma,” Audra says excitedly. “We have Yogurt playing Scooby-Doo.” From beside her, Patty smiles surreptitiously, eyes crinkling from behind her wireframe glasses.

* * *

_ 12:32 PM  _

_ [Bbill Bbill]: so it’s october  
what’re y’all’s planz  _

_ [Mike on a Bike]: Trick or treatng  _

_ [Bickle Rick]: Trick o treatin  _

_ [Benald]: trick or treating  _

_ [Bieberly]: GET DRUNK OFF MY ASSSSSS  _

_ [Ooder Spagooter]: Trick or treating  
WHO CHANGED MY NICKNAME AGAIN  _

_ [Kosher Salt]: Breaking news: Bev has other plans and Eddie still fails to see the obvious.  _

_ [Bbill Bbill]: lol  
can i come  _

_ [Ooder Spagooter]: Ur going here for halloween??  _

_ [Bbill Bbill]: i fucking wish !!!  
if any of you are interested in getting me over there for one day only pls donate to my paypal  _

_ [Bieberly]: Dang bill u rlly know how to toy with emotions  
Stan was right  _

_ [Kosher Salt]: Don’t do me dirty like this, Marsh.  
I’ve never said anything of the sort.  _

_[Bieberly]: Yeah yeah you could never_  
_Lov u stan_  
_And ye I’m trick or treating too !!!!_  
_Imma be cristine the holo queen_  
_Ben will be ben_

_ [Benald]: I will be ben, yes  
but simplybenlogical ben  _

_ [Ooder Spagooter]: YES I STAN!!  _

_ [Benald]: we actually bought a long wig and her merch and stuff  
bev says she’s gonna give out holo glitters? idk  _

_[Bieberly]: MAYBE_  
_If i have the fund$$$_  
_We’re going to crash the local starbucks at one point so get ready 4 that bc we’re dragging ya’ll with us_

 _[Kosher Salt]: If you do anything embarrassing I will die on the spot._  
_You have blood on your hands._  
_Use it wisely._

_ [Mike on a Bike]: I’m going as Miles Morales  
I feel he’s under-appreciated in the fandom  _

_[Bickle Rick]: Yeahh go tell em mikey_  
_I wanted to go as black panther_  
_But i decided_  
_Why not be a troll instead and be pickle rick_

_ [Ooder Spagooter]: U only thought of that bc of ur nickname  _

_ [Bickle Rick]: Pretty much yes  _

_ [Mike on a Bike]: What are you going as, eddie?  _

_[Ooder Spagooter]: Idk_  
_Richie will prolly have 2 sneak me out again this year_  
_So w/e cheap costume he brings me_

_ [Mike on a Bike]: What if he brings you a morty costume  _

_[Ooder Spagooter]: He better not or i’ll shove my inhaler down his throat_  
_Watch urself tozier_  
_Or no one will_

 _[Bbill Bbill]: that all sounds amazing_  
_most of them at least_  
_send pics! i wanna feel like i was there_

_ [Mike on a Bike]: Yeah, you’ll be here  
In our hearts  <3  _

_ [Bieberly]: :’)  
In this house we stan one (1) billford denbrough  _

_ [Bbill Bbill]: oh gtg lunch is over  _

* * *

Something about Eddie’s message struck him as off. Why would Richie have to sneak him out for halloween?

Again?

“Maybe his parents are still scared of razors in candy?” Audra suggests quietly as she helps him do his worksheets in class. She rubs off his answer with an eraser and hands it back to him, some silent advice to do it again and think about it harder. He pulls up another blank sheet of paper, having his used one filled up with solutions that are apparently wrong.

“M-maybe?” He says, unsure. His thoughts on the matter mixes in with square roots and factors, and he figures to focus on his maths first. “W-wouldn’t they just sss…sift through his c-candy, then?”

“I dunno,” Audra swats away his hand. “Negative, that’s negative.” Bill flips his pencil, the move practiced and swift, to erase the sign. “But is this really that important?”

Bill shrugs, finishing his equation and handing it back. “I’m j-just curious, I guess.”

“Why don’t you just ask?” 

The bell rings, signalling the end of history. They all file out of the classroom, careful not to wake the sleeping teacher on his desk. 

“It’s n-not that easy,” Bill began, tilting himself to squeeze past the doorframe and another student. “W-we’re not exactly t-t-the definition of–of close.”

“How bout Stan?” Audra suggests. “You guys are–”

“Hey, dyke!” Croons a guy way out of vision for Bill. At first both of them are uncomfortable, but keep on their way. “I’m talking to you, Phillips!” He doesn’t see what he does, but can only tell by the slow deterioration of ever-present cheer on Audra’s face that it can only be worse than what he called her. The crowd’s laughter leaves her mouth agape, and her cheeks flushing red in embarrassment. Bill’s fists clench.

“Who was it,” he whispers, the logic draining from his head by the minute. A perfect view of a fuck on a stick swims into his vision, and the guy is apparently enjoying his moment of fame. He’s high-fiving his posse, absolutely glowing with satisfaction.

“Bill, let’s keep moving,” Audra begs him quietly, palms sweaty as she tries to tug him along. The laughing dies down and people part as Bill threads through them to get to this hulking ass of a dick, that is maybe a few years his senior (but he couldn’t care less).

His knuckles turn red with blood and force as he lets his anger slip through his reins.

“He attacked me!” Screamed a disconcerted voice. To Bill, everything seemed almost a ghost of what it is, with his heart pumping adrenaline down to his toes and his head reeling.

What has he done?

* * *

“You didn’t have to do that,” Audra harrumphs as they sit outside the principal’s office. “That was literally a one time thing.”

His knuckles are still red, maybe about to bruise, and his shirt is smudged with blood, drying brown. He maybe has a broken finger, though he can’t really know. He looked disgusting, an aftermath of unrelenting anger.

“I d-don’t even know why,” he confides, pressing ice against pink, numb skin, and winces from the pressure. “I…I got m-mad.”

“What,” she says, audibly disgruntled. “You’re the hulk now? Going out of control and trying to save everyone?” There’s a fire in her eyes, something that screams she never needed saving. Bill understands, because what fool of a man would try to save Audra Phillips and her take-no-shit attitude? 

He laughs. “I g-guess.”

“Well, for what it’s worth,” she says, letting her facade crack as she lets slip a smile that’s like Patricia Blum trying to hide her affection. “At least I can count on you to beat the shit out of anyone.”

“I p-pack a mean punch.” They both chuckle at this.

Mr. Jacobs, some thirty-something balding man that pulled Bill off the other student, pokes his head through the principal’s door and gestures them in. He gives Bill some reassuring smile, as if him breaking another student’s nose will somehow be justified by the reason he’s about to give. He ushers the other student outside, who glares weakly at them both, but he keeps his distance, quite particularly from Bill.

He’s almost ashamed.

“Mr. Denbrough,” greets his principal, that he just now learns is Wells, as he reads her nameplate centred deliberately on the desk. She eyes his hand, red, swollen, and covered in ice, but keeps herself shunned from his shirt. “I trust you know why you’re here.”

From beside him, he can almost feel Audra holding back on rolling her eyes so hard they gain muscles. He laughs, but manages to pass it off as some breathy noise he makes before he speaks. “Y-yes.”

“Given your history, it appears this is not the first time you’ve gotten into trouble for fighting with another student.”

He squirms in his seat, chest tightening. He remembers that day, when any glint of his mother finally liking him turned into dust when a kid had made fun of him.

Him and his stupid stutter.

_“What else is your dumb mouth good for?”_ He’d taunted. And Bill showed him. He made everyone else cry from how deep the bite went into the kid’s skin.

“To be fair,” Audra starts, jumping from her seat to be a hero. “He–he did it because of me.” Principal Wells raises an eyebrow, inviting a continuation from Audra. “That–that guy, Matt?” She looks towards Bill for confirmation, but he only shrugs, as if to say _‘I don’t know who I punch.’_ “He called me a…”

Their principal leans forward as she falters in her words, scared of saying the slur aloud herself.

“A what, Ms. Phillips?”

Audra, who never backed down for anyone and stood tall through everything, was almost some contrived surrealist scene, cowering lower on her seat and seeming smaller than a mouse. It doesn’t really seem like much to anyone, a girl scared of saying a slur, but to Bill, it was more than that. It was like watching Goliath get beaten by a rock to the head.

It was strange, intriguing, and wrong in all the right ways.

“A, um… A dyke, Principal Wells,” Audra sputters out. The woman leans right back into her chair, a perplexed look on her face, confused why that would cause a boy to break someone’s nose and his own hand. “It’s–it’s a…a slur, Ma’am. For a… lesbian.”

Wells’ mouth curves itself into an ‘O’ at the explanation, nodding her head slowly at both of them. “Well, I see no reason for Mr. Denbrough to go as far as break Mr. Andrews’ nose and give him two black eyes. Unless…?”

Audra eyes her stern demeanour, and Bill sees the fear in her eyes as she bows her head down. The principal’s weathered, dark-toned hands cross in front of her, placed almost in a benign manner on top of each other.

“Well, this school values respect and acceptance above all others, Ms. Phillips, and I assure you his actions will be accounted for.” She turns to him, and Bill feels every single follicle of his under scrutiny of her wizened eyes. “As for you, Mr. Denbrough, you understand there is a punishment for this?”

“Of–of c-course, Ma’am.” 

“A week of suspension, and some sessions with our guidance counsellor.”

“Out of curiosity,” Audra says, slowly regaining her voice. “What about Matt? What’ll happen to him?”

“I suppose a month of detention,” Wells replies, fingers smoothing over papers on her desk. “And an apology.”

“B-but, Principal–” Bill jumps from his seat. “That c-can’t be it.”

“But it is,” she says dismissively. “Besides, I think he’s had enough punishment from you.” She turns to sort through drawers behind her. “Now go home, Mr. Denbrough. We’ve called your parents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! your comments and kudos makes local writer feel good about this fic
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr! come say hi!](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things, I suppose, that we miss and regret. This isn't one of those.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya i have school now, so.... yeahp. 
> 
> also this is getting too long but it's sort of awkward to just suddenly time skip to next summer. i'm trying to make this as short as possible with the fewest possible number of chapters. please bear with me ;w;

Riding shotgun next to your dad who had to leave work due to you being suspended from school is not the best thing you could be doing on a Wednesday afternoon. Although it _is_ better than riding next to your perpetually disappointed mother who hadn’t bothered with you since second grade. So Bill supposes he can’t complain.

“So,” his dad starts, with no particular question in mind and nothing to bare the disappointment that Bill just _knows_ is there. “Suspension again, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“In what, two months of school?” 

“ _D-dad_ ,” Bill says, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. He’s ridden with guilt as the word pours out of his mouth. The fact that he’s forcibly turning tables that should never be flipped stares him in the face like all his mistakes. That he’s annoyed when his dad is simply trying to make him feel okay about his situation. 

His dad should be growing horns and tormenting him like the sinner he is. It’s only right.

They fall silent for a while. The drive towards the hospital has them trying to move comfortably through the tension in the air without choking on their words or freezing where they stand. “So what happened?”

There’s a long pause, a stutter, if Bill could humour himself, in the conversation. In that short five seconds, he finds himself seeing thoughts as they were on display on large LED screens, flashing colours of contradictory. “He, uh, i-insulted A-audra.”

“Then you punched him?”

“M-multiple times,” he says, trying to fill his wavering voice with humour. He doesn’t say it’s because she was gay. He especially doesn’t say he reacted that way because he thought of  ~~ himself ~~ a boy coming out through tears hushed by rain. 

His dad laughs. At least it lightens the air. “You’re a good kid, Bill,” he says, unprompted. “Just… don’t let this make you think otherwise, okay?” 

Bill rolls his eyes as a smile starts to curve his lips. “Okay, D-dad.”

“How’s your hand?”

“Hurts l-like a b-b-bitch.” His dad smiles with silent disapproval for his choice of words.

They sit in silence again. The waters that drown them loosen and filter from their throats. They’ll be okay.

* * *

Bill Denbrough is not okay. He supposes he could have been expelled and his parents could have taken away his phone. The kid could have fought back and beaten Bill into a lifeless pulp. There are worse things he could be.

So for now he’s stuck with the dull nothings of being alone in his house, having to resort to rewatching shows on Netflix and trying to entertain himself with the whistling winds. 

There’s nothing much he can do with his right hand in a cast, unless he wants to directly disobey the doctor’s orders and possibly bury them further in unpaid bills. Although he doesn’t think it works that way. Either way, he can’t text or draw or paint or type. 

There’s about two days left in his suspension, and by now he’s exhausted all means of entertainment. He’s finished all the seasons of Brooklyn Nine Nine available on Netflix, rewatched all four Shrek films, and started getting into cooking half-decent food in the microwave.

Today, he’s taken three naps on the couch and made rather watery scrambled eggs for himself. Had he known he was going to end up like this, he would have gotten in control of himself and ushered Audra away. 

Audra says everyone in school has heard of him by now, and claims a junior has the hots for him. Patty even suggests dating her if things don’t work out with “Curly boy”.

It’s around 9, meaning everyone is in class and there’d be no online updates to scroll through for the time being. But by some god-send miracle, his phone lights up with a buzz and his ringtone.

_9:15 AM_

_[Nightingale]: Hey, got sick today._  
_Figured it’s time to ask._  
_Why haven’t you been texting back? It’s been maybe a week._  
_I’m worried(?) and a little offended._  
_The others are, too._

_[Nightingale]: Worried, I mean.  
Just, answer when you see this, okay?_

It’s right then that Bill realises he’s forgotten to tell the others back in Derry of his predicament. He tries to type out all the little events that transpired which led to him having to stay at home, but his left thumb couldn’t type it all in less than two minutes. He deletes his whole reply and writes one out that he’s never had say before.

_[Bill]: sorry  
call me._

His phone rings immediately, catching him off-guard. He brings it to his ear.

“Bill?” Stan whispers, voice stuffy and echoing through the line. Bill melts as he hears it, having gone too long just texting and snapping. “Is anything wrong?”

“H-hey,” he greets, equally quiet, as his own home was empty, and his voice echoed to remind him of his own loneliness. “You w-w-weren’t kidding w-when y-you said sss…sick.”

“No,” Stan laughs a bit. He pauses from his end, and Bill hears a wet cough come through. “What happened to you? I expected you to answer, like, lunchtime maybe.”

“Oh, y-yeah. F-forgot t-to t-tell you.” The three fingers that weren’t immobilised by his cast taps on the felt of his couch. He purses his lips. “I g-got sus…suspended.”

“You got suspended.”

“Right.”

“And forgot to tell us.”

“Of–of course.”

It’s almost as if Bill sees the face-palm Stan does when he sighs. “You do realise how fucking unbelievable that sounds, right?”

“M-maybe,” he says, the word tasting foul on his tongue as he thinks of his idiocy. His fingers tingle with an odd cocktail of guilt and relief at having forgotten about Stan. “B-but it is w-what it is, babe.”

Stan laughs from the other line. “Shit,” he curses as he settles. “Never call me babe again.”

Bill flushes red. Saying something stupid about people dating Stan was one thing, but it’s another outright calling him something as cliched and ill-chosen as _babe_. He figures he really should take advantage of his stutter and think about his words before he says them. Besides, people actually expect him to pause as long as he does.

Stan turns back to his slightly cold demeanour before Bill could even apologise. “Still,” he says, laughter gone from his voice and Bill is left with longing for their easy-going vibe. “No text? At all? And why’d you even get suspended?”

“Ah.” Bill brings his knees to his face, as days of reflection brought him to the conclusion that no one likes a delinquent. “B-b-beat sss…someone up,” he explains, with as few words he can muster so they can leave this topic behind. “B-broke my hand.”

“Ooh,” Stanley says, feigning pain from Bill’s words. “So no texts?”

“Yeahp.”

“And what happened to the guy? Was he from your class?”

“D-doubt it. I think h-he’s a sss…senior?” Bill says. Stanley hums from the other line, and Bill waits for a reply. There’s a long pause, interrupted by a sneeze on Stan’s end. Bill smiles at how tiny it sounded. 

“That’s kinda hot,” Stanley finally says, joking tone obviously filling his voice. Nevertheless, Bill’s brain falls out of its cavity and Bill is left reeling. The words land like a punch to the gut, and he’s trying to recover.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“T-that’s gay,” he replies, thinking of nothing else to say. 

“What else do you expect from me, you het?” Stan says, and they laugh. Bill doesn't bother correcting him. Stan laughs until he snorts and coughs, and it sounds gross as he expels phlegm from his throat. It should be a red flag how Bill finds it all so endearing, but he figures it’s Stan, and he couldn’t care less.

“Y-you okay?” Bill checks when Stan quiets down. “W-what happened to you?”

“Would you believe it,” Stan sighs. “If I tell you Richie and Eddie got together.”

“No, God,” Bill sits up. “I t-thought they w-w-were already a–a thing? And w-what d-d-does that have to d-do with you?”

“Woah there,” Stan says, bewildered. “They were most definitely _not_ a thing. And Richie, asshole that he is, made us stand in the rain as belted out his _god-awful_ rewrite of American Pie that he’s been working on for months. Then when we thought he was done, he got on one knee, pulled out his phone and–” He sneezes, loud and rackety through the phone. There’s a pause, for him to wipe his nose, perhaps, and he continues. “Sorry, then he fucking–he fucking begins a speech.”

“H-holy shit,” Bill gasps, on edge with every word that left Stan’s lips. “And o-only you g-g-got sick?”

“I’m a sickly boy, Bill,” Stanley says, sounding almost proud of the fact. “But as sick as it made me, Eddie started crying, and it was actually…” He trails off, then lets out in a very rushed whisper, “Kind of sweet.” Bill hears the smile in his stuffy voice, and feels the rush of happiness to his own fingertips.

“D-did you c-cry?”

“That’s ridiculous–did I…? No, Bill, I got _sick._ I think that’s punishment enough. I don’t need emotions, too.” Stan sniffles. “Yeah, just a little bit,” he admits quietly. Bill laughs softly. “It’s just, I’m so proud of them, you know?”

“I g-guess,” Bill says, for lack of better words. “G-god, I miss t-them.” Stanley murmurs something unintelligible. “W-what?”

“Nothing,” Stanley grunts with a cough. “I said they miss you too.”

“Hm,” Bill hums noncommittally. He buries his face into his knees as he sighs the next part into the phone. “Y-you’re different w-w-when you’re sss…sick, Stanley,” comes out of his mouth. Not the wholly formed _I wake up in the morning expecting to find the underside of a top bunkbed facing me and a plan to go deep in the forest,_ that he had resting in his mind for days. He doesn’t get to admit he dreams of plans of watching movies in Beverly’s bedroom and cooling down at Mike’s farm. 

He especially doesn’t admit that he thinks about Stanley most of all.

“So I am,” Stanley sighs. “See you, Bill.”

* * *

Bill gets through those two days, eventually. He’d convinced his dad to take him out over the weekend so he could buy his costume (the only productive thing he’s done, as far as he knows). Georgie insisted on making him finish a 1000 piece puzzle they’d bought years ago but never solved. Audra let him walk Yogurt one morning, which proved to be disastrous when her leash snagged on his cast and he had to run her speed until he got it loose.

All in all, Bill found the whole week almost satisfactory, had he not broken his hand. 

He’s back in school now, back to counting the days before halloween and tuning out his teachers’ drawl. Audra lends him a hand in taking notes, and Patty carries his books for him. His sessions with the guidance counsellor is all he has to face, now.

He’s out of place, maroon jacket and ripped pants in stark contrast to the pale yellow that decorated the counsellor’s office. Quirky paperweights and childish picture frames litter the surface of the desk, and wooden toy blocks like one a baby would own is set to the side. The nameplate on her desk says her name is Gonzalez, and she sits behind her desk, perusing papers and typing things into her desktop. She looks young, maybe mid to late twenties, and the sparkling optimism she radiates doesn’t fail to show it.

When she’s done, she looks up at him, smile reaching to the sky and eyes crinkling behind her librarian glasses. She’s wearing a baggy grey sweater, and her hair is tied back into a modest bun, with stray hairs framing the sides of her face. “Hey,” she greets, voice sweet and casual. “Bill Denbrough, right? Talk of the whole school, lately.”

“Right,” he says, succinct and high-pitched as it leaves his mouth. His hands lay across his lap, good hand hidden behind his cast. His fingers dig into his jacket, gripping the fabric on his shirt. His knees feel weak and his feet won’t stop bouncing. It’s like he’s choking again.

“Don’t be shy,” she advises, curves of her face bringing out kindness behind her eyes.

“Of c-course, M-ms. G-gonzalez…?”

“Please.” She makes a waving motion with her hand, as if to wave away tension. “Call me Isa. I shouldn’t feel like a superior.”

“R-right.”

“So, shall we start?”

_I thought we already did._ His fist clenches tighter around his shirt, and the sinking feeling of weights on his chest amplifies. “Yeah.”

“So, first off, I’m gonna have to ask you to answer…” She digs through drawers, voice trailing off as she finds what she’s looking for. She makes a pleased sort of hum as she pulls out a crisp sheet of white paper and places it in front of him. “This,” she says, smile growing back on her face. “Oh!” She then cries, and Bill thinks she knows he can’t do this, but instead she picks a pencil from her cup and hands it to him. “Here, for, uh, writing.”

He scans the paper first, taking note of the questions. They were simple, asking for his goals and ambitions, hobbies, any particular talent. He turns to the back, where the harder questions are, specifically designed for people like him.

_What did you do?_ Punched someone.

_Why did you do it?_ He insulted my friend.

_Did you regret doing it?_

Did he regret doing it? He felt ashamed, sure, and embarrassed that he was now known throughout the school (And to add unto that, Audra wasn’t kidding when she said a junior had “the hots” for him now). He thinks the only reason he wouldn’t have done what he did was because he ended up fracturing his hand, which left him with nothing to do all week.

Bill comes to the conclusion that he regretted it, but for all the wrong reasons.

_Did you regret doing it?_ Sort of.

“Um,” he says, finally looking up from the questionnaire. “I c-can’t answer t-t-this.” Isa sends him a raised brow, and he clears his throat to get rid of the high pitch his voice took on. “M-my hand.”

“Oh, uh, of course, sorry.” Isa takes to her bag and pulls out a tablet. She fiddles with it a bit then hands it to him, a word doc open for him to use. “Here.”

Bill stares at the paper, then back at the tablet. He then gets to work, typing as fast as he can with only five fingers. It didn’t take him too long, as his answers were short, and he didn’t care much to expound. He hands it back in, and Isa reads his answers silently, mood visually dropping as she gets to the end.

“Um, Bill,” she says, edge and wariness layered into her tone. She perches her head on her hand, slouching as she does so. A hesitant smile dances across her face, dull and small when compared to (what he thinks is) her usual expression. “What does this mean, sort of?”

“I r-regret it,” he begins, fingers tracing against his cast and toes curling in his shoes. “B-but I d-don’t think it’s f-f-for the r-right reasons.”

“Right reasons?”

“Mm.” He shifts in his seat, finding himself scrutinised at every angle. “M-mainly, I d-didn’t w-w-want my hand t-to–to, uh, f-fracture.”

“Yeah,” Isa says, pursing her lips then pulling them back into a thin line. “Bill, how’s home?”

“I-it’s okay,” he murmurs. Something about her question rubs him wrong, and a dull, irritating feeling tries to push itself to the front of his mind. The incessant need to tell people about how his mother never loved him, because they had him too early, how he ruined all her dreams, almost pushes past his mouth. “W-why?”

“Ah.” Isa takes a pen into her slender fingers, and starts flipping it around, like she’s feeling her anxieties crawl up her leg too. “So everything is okay? No problems with your parents? No… sibling rivalries? Something of the sort?”

“N-not that I k-know of,” he lies, hoping she doesn’t notice. “A-are we d-done?”

“No.” Isa writes something down, scrawly handwriting tinged blue on paper. Bill can’t quite see what it is. “There’s no need to be scared, Bill. I’m here to help.” Bill looks into her eyes, dark brown that looks black in low lighting. The slightest glare of light makes them shine warmth and compassion. He should be more encouraged to speak up, but they only make him drown further into oceans of fear and his tongue refuse to let go of his words.

“W-what’s there to h-help?” He asks, as loud as he can muster with his anxieties bubbling and threatening to spill over in his stomach. “I p-punched sss…someone, b-b-but it’s n-not like he–he d-d-didn’t deserve it.”

“Because he insulted your friend?”

“W-well, yeah.”

“And this friend, are they… somewhat special to you?”

“I g-guess.” He swivels a bit in his seat. “I’ve k-known her f-f-for a-all my life, b-basically.” Isa nods at his respond, eyes squinting with thought. Behind her, Bill watches the clock tick its way to 1 o’clock. 

“Do you like her? You know, as more than a friend?” Isa leans forward, and the wheels of her office chair squeak against the tiles as it runs across the floor. There’s ten minutes left on the clock.

Bill does a soft snort at this. “N-no.”

“So she’s… like a sister? More of?”

“Y-yeah, you could sss…say that.” A pause falls, like neither could think of what to say. Bill thinks of additions to his words, desperately looking for a way to disperse the incessant ringing of silence in his ears. Isa clears her throat.

“Mm, well,” she says, pushing her glasses up with a quick motion of her hand. “I guess that’s all we can do for today. I’ll see you next time?”

Bill gets up from his chair nodding, legs already starting to fall asleep and buzzing with the sudden activity. He’s unsure what to say, so he keeps quiet as he walks towards the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are highly appreciated ;w;
> 
> come say hi! i'm @quipcrly on tumblr


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change is what we need, my dove. So give me your hand and call me yours as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hii !! i had a good day today so update :>>

It’s finally halloween. He looks at himself in the mirror. It’s finally halloween. 

“T-this is it,” he says, trying the best he can to shake off the excited tingle in his fingers. Normally, he wouldn’t be this hyped, but knowing he’s doing something with Stan seems to put him on cloud nine.

They’re not even physically together.

“Billy!” Georgie screeches from downstairs. “Have you seen my mask?”

“No!” He shouts, then turns back to the bathroom mirror. He tries to imagine himself wearing the costume. Rust red hair poking through a dark blue cap, a matching outfit sliding down his arms. The image flickers just barely in the mirror, but for him it was enough. He walks out and into his bedroom, and doesn’t think twice about stuffing the costume into his bag.

Somewhere along saying goodbye to Georgie and walking with Audra to the bus stop, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

_ 6:16 AM  _

_[Nightingale]: Good morning._  
_It’s childish, I know, but,_  
_I’m really excited for today._  
_:)_

He smiles as he looks at the message, and from beside him Audra looks over his shoulder to read it too. He looks over at her, and her cunning grey eyes stare back at him knowingly. “W-what?” He sputters out, and she only shrugs before turning back to keep an eye out for their bus. He types with speed and efficiency he’s garnered after having to live with practically only a left hand for two weeks.

_ [Bill]: me too :DD  
i really want to see u guys tho :(  _

_ [Nightingale]: I’d want that, too.  
Guess we gotta wait for summer, though.  _

_[Bill]: not really haha_  
_sometimes we come home for xmas_  
_so hmmm maybe ;)_

 _ [Nightingale]: WHAT. _  
_Why only tell me that now?_  
_Now I have to give you a present._  
_Bad enough I didn’t get you one for your birthday._

 _[Bill]: nonononoo_  
_it’s fine_  
_besides, spending time with you guys is enough for me_  
_and aren’t u jewish?? doesn’t that mean no xmas_

 _[Nightingale]: Well, there’s only ever three of us left during Christmas break._  
_That would be me, Mike, and Ben._  
_And yeah, we don’t celebrate Christmas, but it’s always fun to give._

The simple sentiment is enough for Bill to bury his face in Audra’s shoulder and groan loudly. “What?” Audra asks as she shrugs him off. Bill groans louder into his hand.

“W-why is h-he sss…so c-c-cute?” He asks aloud, to maybe Audra, but mostly to himself. “W-why am I sss…so g-gay?”

“Big fucking mood,” Audra laughs. The bus comes and they make their way to an empty seat. “You excited to match costumes with your cruuuush?” She teases, singing the ‘u’ in the word quite obnoxiously as she leans into Bill’s face to prove her point. 

“H-he’s not a c-c-crush,” he fumes, which makes Audra’s smirk grow wider and the glint in her eyes turn to mischief.

“Ah,” she says. “Puppy love, then? Or perhaps you prefer the term love of your life?” She pouts when he grunts in disapproval. “Seriously, Bill, even when you said you ‘liked me’, you weren’t acting this bad.”

“D-did you know h-he sss…said I w-was hot?” He asks, voice like a wisp in the sense that it was more comprised of his breathing than his actual voice. 

“Yeah.” Audra leans back in her seat and pulls out a sandwich from her bag. “You’ve only mentioned it, like, three thousand times since he called you.” She holds the sandwich up to his nose, the brioche sending crumbs falling to his lap. He’s tempted to accept it, with the smell of ham and sharp tinge of cheese wafting towards him. He tears a piece.

“W-well sorry f-for b-b-being a little ob-obsessed,” he jokes, knowing full well how deep he is in his world full of Stan, Stan, Stan. Audra rolls her eyes and elbows his side. Bill gasps in pain and his hand to the area.

“Don’t joke around, Bill,” she warns. “It’s getting concerning.”

“Is–is not!” He protests. His backlog of texts to Audra and Patty about Stan play against him, so he can only hope Audra doesn’t have the mind to read anything he sends her. So knowing him, he’s on the losing side.

“Is so,” Audra challenged. “Don’t fight me on this, you know you’ll never win.” Bill shrinks in on himself when he realises this was true. Audra leans closer to him and puts an arm around his shoulders. “Aw, it’s okay, Billy,” she coos. “It’s kind of cute, to be honest. Just tone it down a little, okay? Don’t get too wrapped up in something so small.”

“W-whatever, dude.”

* * *

His sessions with Isa are during lunch “whenever he feels like it.” So long as he completes five hours with her, it should be fine. He chooses today to go, since he was in a good mood anyway. Nothing much happens, or nothing much that he particularly remembers, so he walks to his class alone, trying to remember everything she said and asked. His memories are vague, some key moments include him dropping his phone and Isa asking about his plans for today.

Trick-or-treating was the obvious choice, of course. What else should he be doing on halloween? 

_“No parties?”_ She’d asked with a wink. _“You could be out there having the time of your life, you know.”_

And he is, really. He enjoys the company of his friends with the crisp night air of autumn and the smell of Mrs. Phillips’ pumpkin pie. He loves third-wheeling Patty and Audra (despite popular belief), as he can revel in the simple joys of when life is still simple. He could go on and on about sitting in front of the telly with them later on, picking away the candy they deem bad and paying the smallest amount of attention to whatever B-rated horror movie was on. There was nothing he’d rather have than matching costumes with someone far away and being told the mishaps of their own halloween night.

Instead, he replied with: _“I’m n-not one f-for p-p-parties.”_

He pays no heed to the high-pitched giggling and soft whispers of gossip behind him. Knowing full well Isa will ask “remember what we talked about last time?” when he comes back for their next meeting, he tries his hardest to remember what they’d actually talked about. It’s not until someone taps his shoulder that he turns around to the source of giggling. He’s met with curious green eyes. A genetic rarity, he’d imagine.

“Hey,” greets the girl. He can’t quite put a name to her, not bothering to do so unless it were his friends. “Will, right?”

“B-bill,” he corrects, ready to leave the second his “name” left her mouth. She purses her lips and her eyes wander around the hall, as if she were filing his name somewhere in the useless information section of her brain. 

“Right,” she continues, as if unfazed. He almost wonders how she does it, getting someone’s name wrong and continuing on without the embarrassment it causes. “Anyway, there’s this party tonight...” Oh, no.

He should have bolted when he had the chance. “Mhm,” he hums, hoping his indifference would be enough to deter the girl. She keeps talking, and he silently blows air from his nose to hide his annoyance.

“A few of us were wondering if you were coming.” The question itself was kind of stupid, really. Bill's sure inviting a freshman to a highschool party is a surefire way to instigate a colossal party foul. Maybe.

He does something stupid, then. He asks, “why?” The girl frowns.

“I...” She trails off, trying to find her footing. “Whatever. Here, it's at...” She starts giving him the address, and he gets the basic gist of where it is, but for the most part, he's not listening. “See you there,” she says when she's done and leaves him. Her friends trail behind her and send him ambivalent looks as they pass.

_You most definitely won't,_ Bill thinks almost smugly. He continues on his walk to class.

* * *

“I’m t-t-telling you!” He sputters out as he watches everyone do their stretches. “T-they only w-want me there b-b-because I punched Mark!”

“Matt,” Patty corrects, bending down to reach her toes. Audra makes a face beside her as she stares, a small, scrunched-up smile that meant mischief. Bill furrows his eyebrows at her in warning, and she simply pinches her lips together tightly and widens her eyes with a shrug, something like _I wasn’t gonna do anything._ “Besides, you don’t have anything better to do. Just go.”

“Yeah,” Audra says. “You probably feel left out when you’re around us all the time.”

“S-stop,” he implores. He’s making up reasons as he goes, but he knows for sure he was only invited because he’d been able to singlehandedly topple a senior with his awkward stature. Of course, he’d never tell his friends that he didn’t want to go because the thought of going to a party with mostly juniors and seniors sent the tingling pain of murky black anxiety pooling in his chest. Or that he didn’t want to give up their tradition of going around the neighbourhood then watching movie reruns on cable.

He’s too rigid for the world to sweep up and carry forward like everyone else, and he doesn’t want anyone else to know.

“You’d _really_ rather go trick-or-treating like children?” Audra challenges, obvious mocking disbelief present in her voice. 

“If y-you’re t-this ex–excited,” Bill urges back sarcastically. “W-why d-don’t you just go to the d-damn thing instead?”

“Good idea,” Patty says with indifference. “We’ll come with you.” This sends Audra nodding excitedly and Bill’s knees crumbling despite him sitting on the ground.

* * *

In the end, none of them wanted to skip trick-or-treating, but Audra and Patty refused to skip the party. They decided to do a quick pop-in and leave, maybe get around a little. Which meant no bringing Yogurt as Scooby Doo. Bill suggested they hit the best houses first before they go, so the other kids don’t get all the candy. 

This leads them to a bigger problem. It’s immature enough for them to be freshmen at a party, but showing up with sacks full of snickers and m&ms would be ridiculous. They drop it off at Patty’s, as otherwise Georgie or Yogurt might eat everything. 

So they show up at this huge gathering of now mostly intoxicated people, Cop-With-Broken-Arm escorting two-fifths of the Scooby Doo gang. It was, at the very least, better than the piss-poor recreation of Ross’ Spudnik costume that Bill spots in the far corner of a room. He swears that it was a tissue-roll mummy with only two-ply paper protecting the world from an eyeful of That on the front lawn.

As he turns back to his friends after a failed attempt at trying to confirm if it really was what it was, he realises with dread that he’d been left alone. He’s stood frozen in the middle of what he thinks is the living room, being pushed past and bumped into by people much bigger than him. All he could see is an endless sea of people, set afire by the lights plastered with red cellophane. 

Bill decides to make his way to the least crowded space in the house. 

He walks into the kitchen, but it’s already occupied by some two people having undisturbed conversation amidst the music and laughter. Nothing much, except for the girl’s bright blue head of hair really catches his eye. Rom-Com in the making, he notes to himself. Deciding it wouldn’t be much of a bother, he gets himself a drink and leaves. He makes his way into the upstairs bathroom, but at that moment, he starts replaying Michael in the Bathroom in his head, and it wouldn’t stop until he left for another place.

He takes a sip of whatever he was holding, some pink-red concoction someone had mixed glitter in. It burned its way down his throat, like he was drinking warm soda that tasted like lemonade.

Outside was a dense crowd, then. Despite the chill in the air, a handful of people were still fooling around in the pool. He supposes it’s not much compared to inside, so he sits himself down on a lawn chair and places his cup in between his legs. He takes out his phone, secures his drink with the three fingers on his right hand that were free from his cup, and opens his groupchat with his friends back in Derry.

_ 7:49 PM  _

_[Bbill Bbill]: send pics of ur costumes!  
I wanna seeeee_

_ [Bieberly]:  Hanlonween.jpg _  
_ C/o aunt maggie!!! richie wouldn’t let us leave his house without like 9870 pics  
We miss you bill!!_

He takes in everything at once. Bev’s ratty brown wig failing to hide her strands of fiery red hair; Ben’s fake glasses and seemingly endless inventory of Starbucks merchandise; Mike’s slightly too-big spiderman suit and the blue hoodie he’d pulled over the whole ensemble; Richie’s green blob of a pickle and Eddie’s questionable sexy cat costume.

Then Stan… Stan looked too casual to be Stan. Though he wasn’t trying too hard to pull off any sort of look, something inside Bill went wild at the sight of a loose-fitting white shirt tucked into a pair of grey sweatpants, all that Stan was basically swimming in. Then the beanie perched precariously yet recklessly on his head, hiding most of his curls, with some poking out just slightly to cover his forehead. Everything he wore was something Stanley wouldn’t be caught dead wearing on a daily basis, yet he pulls it all off perfectly with the grace and poise only Stan could have.

He sighs at the sight of them all together, a pull in his chest making him look at the silvery waves that shine his loneliness back in his face.

_[Benald]: send us your costume, bill!!_

At Ben’s request, Bill pulls up his camera app and takes a picture of his neck-down, his phone held upwards and pointed awkwardly as he takes a picture of himself.

_[Bbill Bbill]:_ _it-mee.jpg  
_ _i’m here to arrest @zach for not stopping_

_[Bickle Rick]: I TOLD U SO ZACH!!!!  
_ _stan-stop.mov_

Bill takes a sip of his drink, the taste of which he’s still getting used to, then plays the video.

Through the bustling of his own surroundings, Bill could barely make out what Stan was saying. He holds up a finger, and his lips read “just once,” and Richie’s voice, loud and clear, says “yeah, dude! Just do it!” Stan drops his hand and says something Bill couldn’t hear.

Stan does a poor mimic of Zach’s matrix-esque kick, swinging his leg in an arc with his arms spreading out for balance. He tries another one, laughing as he kicks. The video ends with him ducking and laughing in feigned embarrassment.

_ [Kosher Salt]: Are you at a party?  _

_ [Bbill Bbill]: yuhh  
how’d u kno??  _

_ [Kosher Salt]: You wouldn’t use a red solo cup in your own house.  _

_ [Mike on a Bike]: What if he was just getting ready at Audra’s house  _

_ [Kosher Salt]: There’s grass at his feet. He wouldn’t do that outside. _  
_And I’m sure Audra would’ve given him a glass, anyways._  
_With water, might I add. I don’t think you’d give a guest glittering pink shit to drink._

_ [Ooder Spagooter]: Wow i didn’t know i was friends w/ sherlock holmes  _

_ [Kosher Salt]: Nothing escapes me.  
I only ever miss the big things in life.  _

_ [Bickle Rick]: Yeah like big bill and his big dicc amirite fellas  _

_ [Ooder Spagooter]: One day ur gonna give stan a deadly migraine  
See yall @ th funeral saying “i told u so”  _

Bill huffs at the nickname they were still apparently using. He decides it’s time to stop looking like a loner on his phone. He takes another sip at his drink, the burning feeling back at his throat, and the fruity taste doing nothing to conceal the bitterness of whatever else was mixed in. He presumes it’s alcohol, but there was nothing else to drink at this stupid party. 

Before he knows it, he’s coming back for seconds and thirds until he’s practically staying in the kitchen. His mind is goo, and everything else was fuzzy and faded at the edges. He doesn’t know what time it is anymore. They’d said “quick pop up,” but Bill thinks they’ve been here for hours. People are starting to leave, or maybe he’s just getting used to the space. 

“Dude,” laughs a girl from beside him. He’s pretty sure it’s the girl in the kitchen from earlier. That, or someone else dyed their hair electric blue and also styled it into a sharp bob. She’s wearing a blue dress that shows her middle, sort of matches her hair. He’s sure he’s seen it in a show Georgie watches. “How many of those have you had?”

“I d-dunno,” he slurs, leaning into the table with his bad arm. “I’m j-just here for t-the ride I–I g-guess.”

“Hm,” the girl hums in thought. “Are you Bill, by any chance?”

“Y-yeahp,” Bill hiccups as he pours himself another shimmery ladle of punch. “Punched w-w-what’s his name o-or w-whatever.”

“Well, Bill.” She takes his cup and hands him a glass of water. He should, of course, be detered from drinking it, seeing as he was drunk as shit and didn’t even see if she’d put anything inside. “I think you’ve had enough of that.” 

“Dang,” he says dumbly. “W-what even was that?”

“Vodka, gatorade, a shit load of other things,” she explains. “I’d like you to know it’s duly named the AdBill.” She raises a hand to do air quotes. “ _‘Because you’d surely need one after dealing with this punch!’_ ” She then says with feigned vigour. Bill chuckles politely. “The name’s a work in progress.”

“Y-yeah,” he says, completely missing how the drink was named after _him_. “Sss…sounds lame.”

The girl laughs again. “You’re a dweeb.” Her eyes wander around the room and she takes a small sip from her own cup. “Are your friends here? Or did you come alone?”

“T-they’re here, some–somewhere, I g-guess.” He stares at her a bit, his inebriated mind painting everything in impressionistic smears that blur into each other and leaves him guessing. “W-what’s your n-name?”

“Eileen, to new people.”

“L-like the song?”

“Leave my sight. I’ve seen hell with my own two eyes and witnessed the death of God himself. I will tear you a new pussy if you mention that song.”

“I-it’s a nice song,” he says rather stupidly as his brain dances off to the muffled music. “W-what do you m-mean, t-t-to new p-people?”

“M’ friends call me Scout.”

“T-to Kill a M-mockingbird,” he remembers, clear as day despite everything else being mixed and smeared and soupy in his head. “G-good b-book.”

“Right?” She says excitedly. “No one really remembers much of it from eighth grade. I mean, they never actually _read_ it.” Scout frowns and squints. “But then again, eighth grade doesn’t seem like a time to be paying attention to books from the sixties.” 

“It’s n-not,” he confirms. His eyes are starting to get sore. “I d-don’t feel too g-gucci.”

“Wow,” she breathes with the ghost of a laugh lightly glazing her words. “You really _are_ drunk.”

“N-no, I’m–I’m fine.” He takes a sip of his water, half-expecting it to taste like ‘AdBill.’His face scrunches up in disgust when it doesn’t, but the slight relief of it cooling down his throat is enough to bring him slightly back to earth.

“C’mon,” Scout offers, then downs the rest of her drink. “I’ll help you find your friends.”

“O-okay,” he stammers and pushes himself away from the counter. He stumbles a bit, so Scout takes it upon herself to hold him steady by the waist. “Sss…sorry.”

“S’ alright.” She walks him out of the kitchen. His tired eyes can’t keep up with the rest of the room, with the lights turning into clashing neon pinks, and for a second he contemplates dropping dead on the floor. “What do your friends look like?” Scout asks as she settles him near the couch to rest herself awhile.

“Scoo–Scooby doo.”

“What?” Scout crosses her arms, and Bill, for some reason, decides to do the same. His eyes are barely open now, and anytime he tries to lift them up, his eyelids refuse to cooperate. He feels he’s melting into the couch.

“D-daphne and Velma.”

She makes a thinking noise, as if she’s seen them before but can’t remember where. Her eyes light up when it comes to mind. Her arms wind around Bill’s arms and she hoists him up. “Come on, ya sleepy drunk.” He slinks downwards, legs glued to the couch. She heaves him away with a grunt. “Quit,” _huff._ “Being,” _huff._ “So,” _huff._ “Difficult.”

The world feels like it’s crumbling behind him and reforming in front of him as he walks up the stairs like he’s on a tightrope. He’s almost nauseous, leaning into the railing and groaning. “That’s what you get for drinking so much,” Scout comments before throwing open a door to her left. “I _think_ they were here,” she whispers to herself. “Oh– Oh my God!” She shouts, and a hand comes flying to Bill’s already closed eyes. 

“W-what?” he asks, too tired to look through the obvious gaps of her fingers.

“Nothing. Wrong door.” She takes him to another one. “Theeeere they are,” she says, and carries him to sit on the bed.

“Oh God,” he hears Audra say. “Bill, what happened to you?”

“Drank the punch,” Scout fills in. “Maybe should have stopped at drink number zero.” Two pairs of hands are on his shoulders, presumably Audra’s and Patty’s. He’s too magnetised to the bed to care.

“Ugh,” Patty grunts. “How will we walk him home?” 

“I can drive you guys,” Scout offers. “Let me get my keys.”

* * *

The most difficult part, according to Audra, would be getting him up the stairs to his room without waking anyone up. For Patty, it would be watching him throw up then having to strip him down to nothing and dress him in less glitter-spoiled clothing. For Scout, it would be trying not to laugh.

They’re all wrong.

It was waking up the next morning with his head split into two and spun in three different dimensions, and school at seven (five minutes from now, meaning he missed the bus). The curtains were all closed, blocking out the sunlight from streaming into his room. No one seems to have bothered to wake him up, which was fine by him. There was no force in the world that would make him go to school with what seems like a body that existed in a million different places at once.

There was still a bitter taste in his mouth, and the slight tinge of vomit lightly staining every crevice of his tongue. He searches for his phone, the first thing that popped into his mind being to autopilot to his half-assed routine. His fingers lightly graze the cold screen of his mobile. His plan would’ve been to send a quick streak the few he had left, but thesudden burst of light sends tremors through his head and he squints as he reads. 33…missed calls.

_ 8:20 PM  _

_ [Shitty Rich]: Looool stans freakin out bc he thinks ur drinking _  
_Eddie too but like_  
_Thats different_

_ 8:24 PM  _

_ [Bevvie ;0 ]: BILLY COME GET UR MANS !!!!  _

_ 8:35 PM  _

_ [Country Booooy ily]: Don’t mind us too much, Bill  
Just don’t go overboard with the drinking, okay?  _

_ 8:59 PM  _

_ [Library Cryptid]: hey, Bill, are you okay??  
you’re not answering any of our texts  _

_ 9:20 PM  _

_ [Ed Edd n Eddy]: R u actually drinking???  
Pls calm an anxious boy down n say no  _

_ 10:30 PM  _

_ [Nightingale]: Hey, we didn’t get to talk much today. How was your party?  _

_ [Nightingale]: Bill?  _

_ [Nightingale]: Richie owes me ten bucks if you were definitely drinking.  _

_ 11:10 PM  _

_ [Nightingale]: I’m kidding.  _

_ [Nightingale]: Why aren’t you replying?  
Are you okay?  _

_ [Nightingale]: Were you actually drinking?  _

_ [Bill]: hey! this is scout, bill’s aquaintance…? friend??? _  
_bill is uhh_  
_shall I say busy?_  
_not rlly tho haha he’s a sleepy mess™_  
_his friends are taking care of it so no biggie_

_ [Nightingale]: Oh.  _

_ [Bill]: yeah lol dw tho nightingale person  _

_ [Nightingale]: Nightingale person?  _

_ [Bill]: yeah idk your name but that’s what it’s set as  _

_ [Nightingale]: Ah.  
That’s sweet of him. _

_ [Bill]: oh gtg now haha hope he wakes up soon!!  _

_ 6:02 AM  _

_ [Patty]: u should probably take today off  _

_ 6:03 AM  _

_ [Audzz]: She’s right ya kno  _

_ 6:31 AM  _

_ [Unknown]: yo bruv dis be scout i stole ur number _  
_u got a nice girlfriend btw_  
_also better get some advil for that adbill punch lmaooo_  
_i think i’m funny_

He gives Stan’s thread a once-over, unable to drink in any information from the searing pain in his head. _Nightingale…_

“Shit!” He sits up suddenly, words that leave his mouth do so with no stutter. The sudden jolt upright falls in reverse, and his head grew heavy as lead, making its two sides split apart even more. He groans at what seems to be his beheading.

_ 6:59 AM  _

_ [AdBill]: SCOUT _  
_YOU CAN’T JUST TELL PEOPLE WHAT THEIR CONTACT NAME IS ON MY PHONE_  
_ESPECIALLY NOT NIGHTINGALE_  
_NCJDNSNSL_

_ [Scout]: it’s not that bad???  
she’s ur gf anyways haha  _

_ [AdBill]: first off nightingale is a he _  
_second_  
_HOW TF DID YOU KNOW MY PASSCODE_

 _ [Scout]: ez _  
_if it’s not 1111 or 1234_  
_it’s most definitely boob_

_ [AdBill]: that doesn’t make sense and it’s not even my passcode  
it’s 1478 and you know it  _

_ [Scout]: okie tnx 4 info _  
_i was rlly just replying from the lock screen_  
_ya’ll ios 10 ppl better watch ur backs_  
_also why would you name a dude nightingale_  
_unless_  
_*^* are you GAY_

_ [AdBill]: bye u ass  _

_ 7:07 AM  _

_ [Bill <3]: hI I SKIPPED CLASS I NEED AN ADVILL _  
_sorry about scout_  
_she’s some lunatic i met last night_  
_makes great drinks tho_  
_would totally get plastered again if she made whatever she made again_  
_^^ summary of the party_  
_don’t worry tho !! i’m fine overall_  
_a little hungover_  
_ah wait i’m spamming u hahhaha ttyl_  
_ps don’t freak out about me drinking_  
_i never wanna go to a party ever again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-800-DID YOU SEE THAT CONTACT NAME CHANGE??? HOLY FUCK---
> 
> comments and kudos are great! literally why i continue at all
> 
> say hi! i'm @quipcrly on tumblr


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For when winter numbs our fingers and dusts are noses red, my head is filled with warm summer thoughts of you.

Winter comes to turn his nose red and his fingertips numb. It doesn’t really snow, and in the wise, wise words of Dwight Schrute, it was really only a light dusting. Bill doubts it will turn into something more. Halloween was wild from start to finish, and Thanksgiving in comparison was a mild sweep of time.

He’d asked his dad if they were going to Derry for Christmas this year. “I thought you didn’t like it there?” He’d replied with a raised brow. Bill laughed awkwardly and said he was “j-just w-wondering.”

“Yeah, we are.”

Fireworks bubble up and whir around his stomach, sparks sending him in a frenzy. He had to lock himself in his room to have some ghost of a scream leave his lips and bounce into his pillow. He pounded the worn mattress with his fists, in some crude celebration of victory, and he’s too excited, he knew, but he opened his phone anyway.

But maybe it should be a surprise.

He texted Audra instead, and they went out to buy presents.

Bill supposes the hardest part of all of this would be waiting in the car for two and a half days before he could see Stan again. Georgie sat beside him the whole time, raving about seeing “the prettiest boy he’s ever met” again. When his mom, in feigned curiosity, asked who this could be, and slightly soured when Georgie had answered with “Bill’s bestest friend!”

Bill, pretending not to hear through the playlist plugged into his ears, could only blush and press his head further into the window. 

They were asleep for most of the trip, and had to stop by two motels just to get some sleep for the night. 

All in all, it was the longest two-ish days he’d ever had to sit through, but it was all worth it when he gets down from the car, eyes barely open, to see the facade of the Uris’ house, roof covered in a little more than a light dusting of snow. Its yellowing coat was in stark contrast to the clean white of the snow, and he could see the plants Mrs. Uris had out in the summer had frosted over in the cold.

A few blocks down, as houses got older and less pampered, where vines grew on fences and trees seemed taller and older than the rest of Derry, snow covered driveways that haven’t been bothered with in possibly years dotted the road as they came closer and closer to the split that lead to other streets.

Bill sighs. The untouched beauty of Derry in the summer was nothing compared to its charming, ice-blue elegance in the winter.

He starts moving, enamoured with it all, away from his family. It wasn’t until his dad said “say hi to your grandparents,” that he realised he’d have other things to do first. He already sees Georgie turning away from his grandmother when he comes to. With a smile, he walks briskly towards them, careful not to slip on the ice that formed on the road.

“Hey, Billy,” came the rasping voice of his grandfather as he embraces Bill. “Long time no see, eh, kiddo? How’s that stutter of yours?” Bill turns red (or redder) from this, and he smiles politely as he begins to prepare himself for the butchered words that leave his mouth.

“I’m f-fine, g-grandpa. A-a-and the sss…stutter’s improve–improving.”

“And you’re already going towards that Stanley boy’s house, huh? I like him. Such a charming young man.”

“Mhm.” Bill follows his grandpa’s gaze towards the house, a smile beginning to curve his own lips as he thinks of the boy inside. He’s pushed towards his grandma before he could make more conversation with his grandpa. 

“Hello, Bill,” she greets with an embrace and a kiss to the cheek. She smelled of vanilla, which means she was either baking or making her ever-famous eggnog for them to enjoy after the trip. he’s hoping for the latter. “My, you’ve already grown so much since the last time I’ve seen you.”

“G-grandma,” he laughs a bit. “It’s o-only b-been a few m-months.” His grandma was right, however, as he’d already grown a few inches since he was last in Derry. He tries to see any changes in his own grandparents, maybe a new wrinkle, or whiter hair, but he’s been too busy having his own fun he’d forgotten how they were in the summer. The thought makes him a bit melancholic. 

“Are you going to see your friend?” He nods, a little ashamed at having Stan be his first priority on this trip. “Then go, dear. Be back by dinner.” It was way past lunch, though, so he didn’t have much time. He gives her a quick peck on the cheek, grabs Georgie (who was already well on his way to sprinting past Bill), and tells his dad they’ll be back by seven.

They both stand in front of the door, Georgie holding Bill’s present for Stan, and Bill trying to keep himself from melting despite the freezing temperature. He knocks, fingers jittery and feet unable to keep themselves still throughout the whole ordeal. A muffled “I’ll get it,” reverberates from inside, and the door opens to a sight Bill would treasure for days.

“H-hey,” he says, breathless, all sense being knocked from his mind as he takes all of Stan in from in front of him. Ugly red Christmas sweater (worn ironically, according to Stan, though Bill knows what it actually is), patterned pyjama bottoms, hair unbrushed yet fixed, and nose dusted pink. He was perfect. 

Stan’s mouth only opens and closes, like he’s forming words in his head but unable to make sense from all of them. He blinks a few times, still in disbelief at Bill and Georgie in front of him. “Hey,” was all he can say, repeating Bill’s words like a hollow echo. 

“Hi, Stan!” Georgie squeals, and wraps his arms around Stan’s waist. “Merry Christmas!” Stan, slowly coming back to the world, places his shaking hands on each of Georgie’s shoulders. He looks down at Georgie, then back at Bill, and a smile grows on his face.

“My favourite Denbrough,” he says, to Bill’s heart’s death. 

“I…I–”

“Oh, and Bill.” Georgie giggles when Stan laughs at the look that grows on Bill’s face. “I’m kidding,” he says, and pulls him in for a hug. Bill’s breath is taken away, and Georgie looks at him with pure wonder in his eyes as he smiles. He inhales the scent of Stan around him, the mystery scent of his shampoo (Bill thinks it’s aloe), and the lavender detergent the Urises seem to be fond of. He wraps his arms around Stan, and buries himself deeper in the hole he seems to have dug himself into.

“I missed you,” Stan whispers, so only Bill could hear. Stan lets him go, much to Bill’s disappointment. “I could not have asked for a better birthday gift.”

“W- _what–_ ”

“Still kidding,” Stan reassures, and ruffles Georgie’s hair. Bill breathes a sigh of relief. “My birthday was back in September.”

“ _What–_ ” Stan flicks his nose.

“Serves you right, Denbrough,” he says with a devious smile. “Come in, it’s freezing.”

“Serves him right for what?” Georgie asks as they trail behind Stan into his home. One of Stan’s cats (judging by its pure black coat, if Bill hasn’t mixed up names, then this one is Khoshekh) comes whirring in with a loud purr. Georgie’s hand immediately goes to his pocket, and Bill ushers him along before he actually needs to use the inhaler. Stan shoos away the cat.

“He didn’t tell me it was his birthday,” Stan recalls. “Figured I should do the same.”

“Ah,” Georgie says. “Then maybe I shouldn’t say when mine is either.” Stan laughs. Bill rolls his eyes.

“I-it’s in April. T-the sss…seventeenth.”

“Billy!” Georgie whines. Stan leads them up the stairs. Bill’s heart beats faster at the thought of being in Stan’s bedroom again. Funny, this wasn’t how he felt last time. He supposes a lot can change in the course of three months, in regards to the warmth that fills his chest when in the presence of one like Stanley Uris. His hands grow clammy at the thought.

Stanley turns his head as Bill catches Georgie before he could trip on the still-there bump on the carpet. He eyes the present in Georgie’s hands, a quaint little parcel wrapped in robin’s blue, tied together with a thin golden string. 

“Is that…” Stan begins, choosing what to say in his head.

“For you!” Georgie chirps, extending the gift towards Stan. He takes it from Georgie’s hands, turning it around in his own. “Bill bought it,” Georgie supplies, and Stan shoots Bill a gratuitous smile.

“Thanks,” he says softly, and unties the ribbon.

“Wait!” Georgie grabs Stan’s hands, holding them in his own with a soft clasp from the sides. “You’re not supposed to open it until Christmas.”

“N-no, Georgie,” Bill says. He looks at Stan, who raises an eyebrow. “L-let him.” Georgie frowns and grumbles his begrudging acceptance. Stan smirks and ruffles his hair again.

His opening the present was slow and methodical. Peel off the tape from the width. _Don’t ruin the wrapper._ Turn. Repeat. He goes at each side and its opposite like this, then unfolds the wrapper cleanly. Stan folds it in half again and again before he opens the box. 

Bill doesn’t know how to describe the glint in Stan’s eyes, whether it was good or bad, right then and there. He lifts the black leather cord with tender motions, cocking his head a bit to examine it in the light. Stan winds the cord in his hand, then lifts the pendant when there was no cord left to circle.

Its coating shines in the light as Stan lifts it higher. It was simple, a faded light-blue clay figure of asmall paper crane. The hook that attaches it to the cord threads through its right “wing”, making it lean a little more to the left. As soon as he’d seen it, Bill knew it was perfect. Stan pulls it close and sets the box down on his bed. “I love it,” he mumbles. “Thank you, Bill.”

“I-it’s, uh, it’s n-nothing,” Bill says, and gives Stan a lopsided smile. He’s already putting the necklace on, with his head bowed down to hook the cord into place, so he doesn’t see how Bill hides the smile before Stan could see.

“Sad,” Stan says when he’s done, looking up with a twinkle in his eyes that Bill almost fails to catch. “I haven’t gotten you one.” 

“It’s a-all good,” he says, though slightly disappointed by it. He takes off his coat, which he should’ve done before entering, and hangs it around his arm. “W-we’re here t-till the t-t-twenty-sixth, sss…so…”

“Mhm.” Stan looks at Georgie. “What about you?” He asks. “Did you get me anything?” The look of panic that flares in Georgie’s eyes makes both Stan and Bill laugh.

“Y-yeah!” Georgie says indignantly at their laughter. “Here!” He beckons Stanley to lean down to his height, and promptly kisses his cheek, short and quick. Stan straightens himself, a hand flying to his cheek as he does, and looks at Bill with widened eyes. A blush turns his cheeks red. Bill shrugs.

“Oh, my,” Stan says, looking between Georgie and Bill as he returns the hand on his cheek to his side. “That’s sweet of you.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Georgie faux-whispers, voice sounding like air leaving a balloon. “But you’re my favourite out of all of Bill’s friends.” Bill furrows his eyebrows, and Stan runs a hand through his curls.

“Don’t tell Bill,” he whispers back. “But you really are my favourite Denbrough.” Bill tries his best to look angry, but he can’t help the smile that leaks through the mask he’s put on.

* * *

They hadn’t done much, just play a few video games and goof off. Bill got a few sneaked pictures of Stan and his oversized sweater, each time gushing over the slightly smeared details of his shaky camera work. 

Stan had insisted they hang out Mike and Ben, but Bill went against this, saying they didn’t have much time before dinner, at which they’re both supposed to be back. This is, of course, what he says is the reason, but deep inside, a small part of him insists he’s being selfish, keeping Stan all to himself (he’s even led himself to believe he shouldn’t have brought Georgie). 

At Stan’s frown, he agrees to come by again the next day, after opening presents. Then they can go to Mike and Ben.

It’s already Christmas morning, and they sit around their grandparents’ tree, opening their presents. Bill, by watching Stan, had tried to adapt his method of peeling the tape and getting the wrapper all in one piece. Georgie got impatient and ripped it off in one quick motion. Bill glares at him before going back to ogle his gift.

It was an instant camera, more “vintage” looking than ones he’d usually see with his classmates, and he loves it even more for that. It feels heavy in his hands, which it shouldn’t, but that’s mainly because it’s new, definitely expensive, and his dad even bought film for him. He looks up in the general direction of his parents, pretending, for the sake of his grandparents, that he meant his mom, too, and smiles brightly. 

“T-thanks, g-guys,” he says, and his eyes drop back down to the camera. Georgie’s opening his gifts now, and Bill fades out the noise.

By the time they’re done, he excuses himself, as they had nothing else to do after this. Bill packs his camera and his gifts for Mike and Ben into a small bag then walks out of the door. He strides over to the Uris household, this time without Georgie, and strikes the door. Someone… not Stanley opens the door.

“H-hi, Mr. Uris,” he greets the stoic man. He nods curtly and turns to call for his son, voice loud, but not shouting. Bill supposes this is one quality of a good leader, but before he could use it to reflect on himself, Stan comes to replace his dad at the door. He has a new sweater today, still Christmas-themed, and his pyjama pants has been replaced by the grey sweatpants he wore last halloween. Bill smiles at the thought.

Stan takes a look at him, and Bill could feel the boy scrutinising his corduroys and padded coat. “Bill,” he says, full of pity at Bill’s ignorance. “It’s not _that_ cold.”

“Y-you’re telling m-me,” Bill shivers, the cold taking over his gloved hands. “You’re u-used t-t-to this m-much sss…snow.” Stan rolls his eyes and ushers him in.

“I’m gonna get something before we leave,” Stan informs Bill, and heads up the stairs, leaving Bill alone downstairs. In the living room. With his parents. Bill shouldn’t be nervous, but considering he’s always up in Stan’s room whenever he comes over, he lets this pass.

Bill wanders around the house, noting the Urises’ preference for white, or otherwise dull, mute colours. It seemed almost cold, compared to Bev’s bright red walls or his own house’s blue hues. Everything seemed to have a place, and it wasn’t too crowded, nor was it empty. He walks to the kitchen to find Stan’s mom drinking tea from a small cup.

“Hello, Bill,” she greets, her presence much warmer than her husband’s. “Having a good break so far?” He nods. “Do you want a drink? Something to eat?”

“N-no, thank you,” he says politely. 

“You sure?”

“Y-yes,” he affirms, wishing nothing more than for Stan to come back with whatever he was getting. “B-but thank you, M-mrs. Uris.”

“Please,” she laughs lightly, and takes a sip from her cup. This stains her glasses white with steam. “Call me Andrea.” He nods and smiles, then leaves the kitchen. Stan’s already standing in the middle of his living room, a wad of thick red fabric in his hand. He looks to Bill.

“Ah, there you are,” Stan says. “Come on, they’re probably already waiting for us.” They make their way to the door and pause. Stan turns to yell a goodbye to his parents. Only Andrea responds.

“W-what d-did you have to g-get?” Bill asks as they start to trek through the roads.

“Oh, yeah.” Stan catches Bill’s arm, some call to make him stop walking. Bill starts to ask why, but he’s muffled by Stan wrapping the apparent scarf around his neck. He fiddles with the ends a bit before letting go. “There,” Stan says, finally, and retreats his hands to cross over his chest. “What do you think?”

“U-um,” Bill sputters out, scrambling for words. The gradual decay of Stan’s joy leaves him crumbling, too. His mind starts swimming with the smell of Stan’s lavender detergent wrapped around him so close, and the floating euphoria it causes dangerously mixes with his fear of saying something wrong (or worse, gay). “W-what’s it f-for?” He says, rather stupidly. Stan drops his gaze and clears his throat.

“Christmas,” Stanley mumbles, as if he were starting to doubt himself. Bill inhales sharply, although he also wallows in the scent it brings. “I didn’t really expect you to show up yesterday, or _with Georgie_ , so I pretended I didn’t have your present,” He says, rather quickly. The corner of Bill’s lips curl up slightly at Stan’s consideration. “You know,” he continues. “Just… In respect to Georgie. I didn’t buy his present yet.”

“Y-you bought t-this?” Bill asks, still in awe. He grips the ring that’s formed around his neck, feeling each stitch of yarn. He looks up at Stan, who’s largely considering his answer to that question.

“No,” he says, looking up at Bill with his warm brown eyes. He starts to reach for something at his neck, hidden underneath the collar of his sweater. He fumbles when he finds whatever it was, gripping it tightly with his hand and fiddling with it. “So, uh, you see,” he begins his explanation (one Bill didn’t ask for, but is ready to hear nonetheless). “I needed something to do with my hands, because, you know.” Stan looks up at Bill, and he only nods. “So I went to Bev, because she’s good at those things, right? Right, well, she taught me how to knit, so…”

Bill looks at the scarf again, more enamoured with it than before. Not only was it from Stan, but he also _made_ it, and gave it to _Bill_. Stan was also nervous about it, evidenced by the fact that he was rambling, which, by now, Bill learned was a nervous tic of his. Was he nervous because of Bill? He was ready to run off wild with the theory. Stan was nervous because of _him_ , stuttering, overthinking Bill Denbrough. 

He’s too high up in the clouds, all because of Stan. He almost wants to kiss the boy. But he doesn’t, because he _shouldn’t_ , and that’s just not what _friends_ do.

So he stays, rigid and stagnant, until Stanley pulls him out of his hesitance, and towards Ben’s house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please leave comments and kudos!! they're <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Time flies by so fast when you're having fun."  
> -My math teacher, upon noticing that only five minutes has passed and that no one, in fact, was having the least bit of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! so the last chapter ended with christmas :P nothing much happens after that so this is just a quick runthrough of everything that did happen. very integral to the next chapter, though, so I don't recommend skipping it.

School coming back doesn’t even phase him after Christmas. The days after were spent lying down on his bed, scarf perched on top of his face, not even worn, and relishing in the slowly slipping scent of _Him_. Going outside, though it’s not even cold, comes with the bulky red thing, perfectly imperfect with its loose stitchings and the switchings of yarn showing through where they begin.

New Year’s was spent with him desperately trying to sneak around the combined families of basically everyone on his street. He couldn’t focus much on the parties, nor on the idiotic teenaged-crush-coated thoughts that would slip in and out of his mind. In the end, he finds himself still wrapped in red, out on his neighbour’s lawn and sipping on coke. Beside him, Audra and Patty staring up at the sky and waiting for the fireworks to paint the sky bright, tantalising hues.

It couldn’t be more perfect for Audra beside him to whisper “I love you” as she kissed Patty under the neon sky of January. Their first, sweet and profound with the muffled voices of people in the backyard whooping with joy to welcome the year. Bill was proud of them, but at the same time could only yearn for the feeling of sparks on his lips as someone he’d hold as they do says those words to him in a voice like a wisp to the wind. 

He feels ever so lonely, standing cast-off to the side as the two shower each other in affection. Yes, he doesn’t really mind the fact that he’s constantly the unnecessary one in their whole setup. The third wheel. The single friend. But right now, it hits him stronger than ever how the soft hands he yearns for in the dark aren’t his to hold. Or how the lips that caught his so perfectly are something he’d only ever taste once.

He unwraps the scarf from his neck and sighs. When Audra and Patty turn to give him their traditional kiss-on-the-cheek, he only smiles politely and thanks them. His phone says Stan and the others greeted him “happy new year” three hours ago. He doesn’t bother with replying.

He figures January would give him time to stitch the wound the realisation has opened, yet it sees him suffer, having Stan ignore him online and shoving the truth of it all in his face.

February had him clutching the pieces of his broken heart, trying his hardest to mend them together to make it seem like he’s okay. There are cracks in his character, not talking to Bev and the others as often as he usually does. Conversations with Stan barely last five messages. Audra and Patty seem more nosey in his life than they usually are.

Valentine’s comes along and again, he’s alone. There are no messages in the groupchat. The silence, Bill assumes, is because they have no reason to message when it’s Valentine’s day and they have to spend time being physically affectionate. It has him wondering about Stan, if he had a date, if he went with Mike, as when there are two couples in a group of six, the last two are basically required to pair up. A small part of him laughs at the thought. The bigger half reeks of jealousy at something that’s not even true.

Audra and Patty give him roses, the slightest ghost of concerned looks, and eyes full of pity. He can’t do anything but thank them for the gifts, and suffer silently with the thorns embedded into his heart.

March sees Bill counting the days before summer. He’s not very excited, in terms of new realisations of his place with Stan. But getting away from the city is refreshing, now that he thinks about it. The hairline fractures that compromise his mask cracks dangerously into streams of visible stress. Audra and Patty start asking questions he refuses to answer, fearing their view of him will actually turn into “Stan-obsessed”. He’s starting to talk to Stan again, gradually, but he’s hoping he hasn’t caused too much damage. Yet.

He has to carry his weight, but it’s so hard to do when he carries the burden of his own thoughts.

April gives him no mercy. The ever-approaching month of June gets his thinking on overdrive. With trembling fingers, he’d reached deep into his closet and pulled out the bright red fabric of Stan’s hand-knitted scarf. He wraps it around himself, once, twice, three times until there’s none left to wrap. The heat and the red clouding his vision is suffocating. When he inhales, the scent of lavender is gone, replaced by that of his own dull detergent. Suffocating. How disgusting.

He curls into himself and surrounds himself with the broken wish of the taste of Stan on his lips and the warmth of his hand in Bill’s. Nothing is worth this pain, and he curses falling for the boy in the first place. How could he not? When his golden rays shine so brightly in the dull-grey palette Derry has painted itself in. It’s hard not to direct all his attention to Stan when he was the only thing worth noticing. April brings out the cherry-blossom hues in him, faint pink and almost blanched, but there nonetheless. He wonders if his feelings are flickering in or out of existence.

Georgie’s birthday does nothing to bring him out of his bubble of poignance.

He begins to talk to Stan again, of course, he had no choice. Stanley’s pleading text of _“please talk to me,”_ was like a magnet, pulling Bill to immediately reply. _“What’s wrong?”_ He’d asked, and God, did he regret anything so much in his life, as Stan spilled his brokenness to Bill, his woes of failing all his classes and never moving on as the world did, how his friends are always so far ahead of him, and he can do nothing but stare at their backs and look down on his own progress. 

All his words, suspiciously well-articulated and almost like it was copy-paste, could only prompt Bill to shed his own tears and reply with his own worries (desperately rounding about the fact that one of them is Stanley’s own fault). Stanley, in a moment that filled Bill’s head with helium and made him feel as if he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, awaiting the adrenaline of falling without doing so, said something twistedly heartfelt. 

_“I’m lost, but talking to you makes me feel not so alone in that sense.”_ Bill didn’t know what Stan meant, but he took it to heart, nevertheless. In the end, they both laughed at the strangeness of it all, not talking for months and suddenly, all of this.

May sits heavily on his chest, and the facade of his becomes no more as he dwells in the thought of Stan never liking him back. He very well could, but Bill, knowing Bill, had ruined that chance by simply being himself. With clenched fists and held back words, tears spill out of his eyes and into Audra’s shirt, drops making their mark in darkened purple. He doesn’t know why he should be sobbing. So Stanley will never like him back. Why does that matter? Why does it feel like everything he’s ever built relied on Stanley as a foundation?

His chest hammers and his hands buzz like carpal tunnel, but Audra’s hands combing through his sweaty hair as they’re sat in her room makes him feel a little less alone. Cherry blossom hues fade out into a dull blue, but the slightest glaze of red is enough to give him hope.

He’s sort of back to talking to him again, but something is almost off, like a warning of something worse to come.

June comes to settle in his ribcage, hammering the grand announcement into his bones that sent the thought echoing through his head and reshattering the mask he’d managed to repair. It’s finally summer. It’s two weeks until summer. It’s two weeks until he’ll have to see Stan, see all the signs of him not liking Bill back. “You’re completely ignoring everything else that happened,” Audra had commented. Patty would agree with a nod. Bill can only convince himself further that they’re all _wrong_ , terribly, horribly, inconceivably wrong.

Audra gave him a warning look when he took out the red scarf from his closet again. “Bill, don’t do this to yourself.” She doesn’t understand. He needs to feel this, wrong and horrible, unloved and alone. He needs to let himself know how his affection is painfully one-sided, forever and always.

“I stopped t-talking to him,” he sighs as he walks back to the bed. “I feel–I f-feel horrible.”

“Oh, Bill,” Audra sighs. “You don’t have to stop talking to him, it’s almost summer.” She puts a hand to his back and takes the scarf from his hands with the other. “If you keep doing that, it’ll make things weird when you have to see him face to face.”

“I c-could always just sss…say I was busy?”

“You’ve used that excuse a thousand times every time he’s asked.” Audra raises an eyebrow, showing her judgement of his logic. So maybe he has, but Bill doesn’t care. Stan thinking Bill is lying is a thousand times better than Stan thinking Bill is a clingy weirdo. “Come on, Bill, you guys _just_ started talking again, What happened?”

“Me, bitch, keep up,” he says effortlessly, furrowing his eyebrows at Audra. He reaches for the other end of the scarf, holding it in his palm and stroking each lumpy stitch with his thumb. He still doesn’t know why he stopped talking to Stan again. Maybe he wants him to reach out, try harder, make Bill know the lengths he would go through just for _him_. But no one goes that far for Bill.

So he’s stuck here, he guesses, in his stupid little experiments he lays out that no one knows they’re in.

So far, he’s only been in this stint of his for a few days, and he can stop now before everything goes haywire. For some reason, knowing everything can easily go wrong for him and cost him more than he thinks, he decides to go forward with it.

This was day six.

_ [9:31 AM]  _

_[Stan]: Weird thought:_  
_Do you think people have a favourite fear?_  
_Just, a specific fire they like to feed._  
_Mine would be being alone, I think?_

_ [Stan]: I don’t like being alone but I distance myself from others so much.  
No wonder I don’t have friends, haha.  _

_ [4:16 PM]  _

_ [Stan]: Bill, I’m bored.  
You know any games I can play?  _

_ [10:53 PM]  _

_ [Stan]: Oh shit, I broke our streak. Sorry. :(  _

_ [1:42 AM]  _

__

_[Stan]: Why, hello, sir, may I interest you in some…_  
_Denim-shoes.jpg_  
_Jhoes?_

This was day eight.

_[6:30 am]_

_[Stan]: Hey, school’s almost over.  
Really excited to see you again._

_[3:14 PM]_

_[Stan]: What, still no reply? lol  
Ah well, it’s almost finals, so understandable._

_[3:55 AM]_

_[Stan]: *Forcefully shoving cornflakes down my throat*  
This doesn’t taste like corn._

This was day eleven.

_[8:33 AM]_

_ [Stan]: Bill, are you mad at me?  
It’s okay if you are.  _

_ [Stan]: Just please say so.  _

He’ll break it, maybe. For one message back. He doesn’t want Stan to bend himself out of shape for Bill’s own worries. But he doesn’t, because Bill Denbrough is a fool, who doesn’t know when to stop or when it’s too much.

Stan stopped texting him after that.

At first, it doesn’t come to him that Stan’s stopped. The realisation, however, comes trickling in, unlike the sudden burst of cool greys across his palette when he’d first thought of Stan and him never being anything more than they are now. There’s a bit of panic when his suspicions started growing that finally, Stan had given up on him.

The bit of panic comes to a full-blown storm when it bubbles up in his chest and constricts his airways that Stan had actually given up on him. Thorns prick the soft pink of his heart, and he should have known, he _should have known_ he couldn’t handle the pain of it happening. 

But still, it catches him at the end of his line, devouring him whole and showing him the horrors of his truth.

Bill Denbrough has fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me this far! your comments and kudos are loved and appreciated (by me) :>
> 
> come say hi! I'm @quipcrly on tumblr


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rub salt in my wounds. Let me know the pain I’ve caused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shdjs hii i'm deciding to do this instead of study for my midterms god help me
> 
> this chapter is short but i promise it'll get better soon :'>

Today, they’re about to arrive in Derry, Maine. He’s going to see Stan again, who’s probably pissed, or indifferent; Bill doesn’t know. The thick fog that is his bias clouds his knowledge and throws any sensible thought about Stan out of the window. Audra and Patty says it’s normal. Scout (a junior, turning senior, mind you, so she should be knowledgeable on shit like this) says she has no fucking idea and will never care to do so if it doesn’t rake in the money.

Somehow, Bill looks up to her now. 

Bill Denbrough now thinks to himself, if the summer of last school year was the summer of learning, of discovering and settling in, then this would be the summer of avoidance. Hell, this _is_ the summer of avoidance. For the past few weeks leading up to his return to Derry, Bill Denbrough, the poor, stupid man he believes and knows himself to be, has avoided any conversation to have with anyone related to and that is Stanley Uris.

The academic year was like a break, a sort of intermission for the second act to a promising, but as it turns out, horrible play. He wants to leave, but he can’t. Because he paid for it. With his money. And dignity. Also it was a family trip so he can’t really back out even if he didn’t care about his money and nonexistent-in-the-first-place dignity. So Bill Denbrough does what he does best. Stay quiet until he develops an utterly horrific stutter.

But now he’s in Derry again, carrying a few polaroids Audra, Patty, and Scout shot with his (fairly new) camera and some regrets. Regrets do not include kissing Stanley Uris, although it was more of Stanley Uris kissing him if it counts. But they do include blatantly ignoring him for two whole weeks because of Bill’s own issues, piling their concerned messages up so high and acting surprised when everything collapses and scatters among his feet like rubble, and letting a single kiss, a quick two-second peck on the lips get so far.

Did he really over-romanticise things with his mind, drunk with summer and new beginnings, or did he really, actually like Stan? He wishes the latter would prevail.

When he looks out the car window as they come to a stop, a pair of eyes are staring right back at him, glaring sharply and mouth pouting. His curly hair is swept to the side, instead of falling over his eyes, as if he were saying “yeah, you fucked up so bad, I need you to see both eyes glaring at you.” He’s sitting on the stairs leading up to his front door, legs scrunched together in close proximity and arms laid on his knees, one poised up for resting his head on. 

Stan’s staring right at Bill, and he knows he’s doing it.

While Georgie’s slowly getting out of the car, yawning as he does, Bill panics when Stan stands up, still glaring at him, and dusts his shorts off. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck. “God d-dammit,” he hisses and pushes Georgie out of the car, who lets out an indignant yelp as he stumbles outwards. Bill climbs out afterwards, breathing short and stumbling as he shuts the door, yells out a sorry and sprints into his grandparent’s house like the Flash was chasing him.

He gives each of his grandparents a hug and a greeting before continuing up to their room, slamming the squeaky door shut (it’s not like he had a choice, that door refused to close without making a whole scene of it), and looking out the window. Stan still looked at him, though with the distance between them it was hard to tell if he was still glaring or if that was actually what Bill was seeing (somewhat a hurt frown, but Bill is a blind dumbass who was too afraid of confrontation to actually know). He couldn’t really be sure, as Stan looks down and gets his phone out.

Bill’s phone goes off in his pocket. He shuts the window and sits himself on the bed to see what it was.

_ 3:27 PM _

_[DON’T TEXT]: You’re a fucking asshole._  
_If I did anything wrong, you should tell me._  
_Friends don’t do this shit to friends._  
_But at this point, are we still even friends?_  
_And if it counts, I’m sorry for whatever I did._

From the first message, Bill is already smashed to bits, but as each one made his phone light up, he feels those already impossible to put together fragments shatter and crumble into fine, powdery dust. He wants to scream, to shout and curse and yell at Stan through his window that it was none of Stan’s fault, that it was all Bill and his shit method of pining that not only tore him apart, but their friendship as well.

He looks out his window, but already the boy in khaki shorts and tight button-ups is gone. Everything hitches in Bill’s throat, building up and stretching him to his limit like a stepped-on hose, threatening to burst at its rubber seams within seconds.

_Friends don’t do this shit to friends._

Is that even what they are anymore? After the shit Bill pulled after New Year’s? Is his way truly the best way he can handle his newfound realisations  ~~ of Stan never liking him back ~~ ?

Surely, going silent for months on end isn’t the only thing he could do. It was fruitless, after all, for he came crawling back as fast as he can the second Stan asked him to. But these past few weeks leading up to summer, where Bill actively stopped responding, and now even blatantly running from Stan with no explanation, maybe this is where Stan draws the line.

And rightfully so.

Bill understands; he understands very well the fundamentals of Newton’s third law of motion. For when he began to distance himself in (what he could only assume his friends felt) the most frustrating way possible, Stan’s reactions, though delayed, is completely justified in their context.

Shall he demolish what’s left of his pride, with its complex rules of breaking and unbreaking? He doesn’t even know why he’s too stubborn to go against himself. But is it stubbornness or weakness? Again, Bill would never know. 

So all that’s left for him to do is stare out his window, dry throat hitching screams and curses, everything he’s been meaning to say, and everything he will never say.

Just then, as he’s staring at empty street, with the ruckus of Georgie and his parents going about in the background, the idea flickers into his mind like an all-saving grace. Tomorrow, then. He’ll fix all his damage tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ! please leave comments and kudos ;w;
> 
> come say hi! i'm @quipcrly on tumblr


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shall I stitch together the mile-deep rifts of faultline wounds? I’m desperate now, my dear, so I’ll do it for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so like,,, does this get resolved or what LOL idk but i'm glad ya'll stuck around ;w;

Bill doesn’t know why, but tomorrow came too quickly, like a gust of wind splattered the forget-me-not blue with murky purple paint. The whole process was painful, holding his chest tightly captive, like he would drown should he force a breath. The first step of his plan was simple, setting an alarm for four in the morning. The hard part was waking up and keeping himself upright.

So here he is now, staggering towards the front steps of the Big House, almost falling down the stairs with his sleep-glazed eyes failing to keep open. He gets to the front door, stepping outside and immediately sitting himself down on the steps. He checks his phone. 4:27. Maybe he should have set his alarm a little later.

Bill blinks (he swears he did), only to open his eyes to daylight and Georgie sitting on a chair out on the lawn, turned to face him.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Georgie laughs. “I thought you were dead!”

“H-how long was I out?” Bill says, his own voice sounding too loud in his head. Inside, hell burnt through his veins as he talked down to himself.

“I dunno,” Georgie says truthfully. “I went out and you were there, so, ya know.”

“A-and Stan?”

Georgie shrugs, and Bill sighs in his frustration. He’ll try again tomorrow.

* * *

_ 1:55 PM  _

_[Audzz]: I don’t get it thoo  
Can’r you just text him or smthn like that?? _

_ [Billy Bonka]: can’t! bc I’m a huge fuckign mess  _

_ [Audzz]: Mood but not the time  
Listen, bill, you sweet, over-dramatic, low-key theatre kid child  _

_ [Billy Bonka]: i don’t think any of those words describe me…  _

_[Audzz]: …_  
_Do you think i give a shit?_  
_ Anyway ! Please;; just text him ;;;;;  
I am soick and tired of you being a blind, gay dumbass !!!_

_[Billy Bonka]: k don’t drag my contacts into this_  
_ but I can’t just text him  
idk why i can’t, but like,, i just can’t_

_[Audzz]: K, or whatever  
U either aren’t or you are and right now you aren’t _

_ [Billy Bonka]: with every message you start to make less and less sense  _

_ [Audzz]: Thanks I only have like two bloods left and i lost a pint of braincells  _

_ [Billy Bonka]: pft  _

He doesn’t tell Audra, mainly because he’s too afraid of admitting he was wrong, but he lingers on Stan’s thread for a little longer than he should. 

In the end, he decides to follow through with his own plan.

* * *

When he wakes up again at 4:30 in the morning, he’s prepared this time, going downstairs and making himself a cup of coffee (he puts maybe half a cup of sugar in it, because what kind of monster would like the ashy taste of coffee by itself?). By the time he sets outside, mug in hand, eyes still drooping but more alert than the day before, Stan’s figure was already well down the road. His feet refused to move.

He lingers on their thread again, carving out messages in his head but never actually typing it out. He’ll try again tomorrow.

* * *

_11:22 AM_

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: U bitch !!!  
You didnt tell me u were back in town _

_[Bill-bo Baggins]: o fucc  
slipped my mind lmao i haven’t been on my phone much lately _

That was a lie. He spent every waking moment for the past two weeks on his phone, desperately trying to distract himself from what was right there, trying to ignore the godforsaken message app that screamed his absolutely empty inbox back at him. Somehow, he knew he was waiting for Stan to text first again.

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: Dude let’s hang out B))_

_[Bill-bo Baggins]: sure lol_  
_ i’ll bring georgie !! he misses u guys  
and i THINK my mom’s forgotten abt last time by now lmao_

_[Bevvie ;0]: :OO_  
_MY BOY !!_  
_ Lmao i gtg now but see you in a bit !!  
Park at around 12? then we go to my place_

_ [Bill-bo Baggins]: Gotcha  _

So he does. He gets Georgie to get out of the ridiculous minion shirts he’s been into lately and into some decent clothing that didn’t look like a banana with pubic hair and a toilet seat for eyes. By a quarter to twelve, they’re out of the house and on the way to the park. 

It’s kind of nostalgic, he and Georgie making their way through the streets of Derry, familiar like a dream and as foggy as one too. He takes it all in, much like the day he first met Bev and Ben and all the others; the yellowing fences as he goes deeper and deeper to the heart of the town, the moss and vines that enwrap them all. Bill spots the rusted swing sets and seesaws before anything else, with their missing handlebars and mystery colours. Will Derry ever fix itself? Maybe. He can only imagine. They arrive at the bushes, where Bill first laid eyes on the prettiest boy he’s ever came to know.

It’s hard not to smile when he sees they’re all already there, sat in a circle and whispering amongst each other.

Stan’s the first to look up, catching Bill’s eye as he does. Quickly, he looks down and continues his discussion with Mike. Something inside Bill shrivels up and breaks. It clenches his chest like some twisting black hole. Must be his heart.

Georgie screeches with glee to get their attention. He runs and tackles Beverly, who’s the first to whip her head around at the noise. Immediately, the others follow, smiles growing on their faces as they reach out to hug Georgie tightly. Stan makes the whole sight painful to behold, as his smile is the brightest out of all of them, and he’s not even sparing a glance at Bill. He almost wants to run away.

“Bill, my good sir!” Richie shouts. “Why are you standing there? Come here!”

“Um, I–I…”

“Bill!” Beverly urges with a smile on her cherry-red lips. “Come on, we didn’t wait ten whole months for nothing!” The hole Stanley’s eyes bore into Bill’s head kept him from going forward. But Bill had to pretend it didn’t matter. He’s not here for _Stanley_ , he’s here for everyone. He at least has to pretend he’s unfazed by everything that’s happened (or that hasn’t happened). He runs towards them and joins in with a laugh leaving his lips. 

It’s almost as if they’re children again, though he hasn’t met any of them at age ten. He wishes he had, maybe he’d be given more time with them. 

The embrace he’s wrapped in lasts a little longer than most, them savouring the feeling of him in their arms. What a thought, people actually looking forward to seeing Bill. If only he stopped fucking it all up with his stupid self-deprecation. Maybe he has a masochistic kink.

When they let go, Bill seems to come at an opposition with Stan, standing across from him, further than anyone else. No one notices the tension between the two. “So,” Beverly starts. “I guess we go to my house now?”

So they do. The “sweltering” heat of Derry is nothing compared to home, but it makes beads of sweat pool at his chin nonetheless. They all walk in pairs, Bev with Ben, Richie with Eddie, Stan with… Mike. In that order. Bill and Georgie lag behind, Georgie making a fuss about Bill walking faster. He gets tired, apparently, and leaves Bill to run ahead towards Richie and Eddie, who are busy laughing about something Richie said. 

This leaves Bill alone in the back, staring at the backs of Stan and Mike as they discussed (from what Bill can hear) the fundamentals of “what makes things scary.” Mike says it’s whatever birds are made of. Stan argues it’s the eerie silence of whatever lurks in the dark. As Stan continues with his “birds aren’t scary” bit, Mike looks behind to lock eyes with Bill. He shoots him a smile, to which Bill can only return lopsidedly. 

Mike, sensible as he is, takes note of Bill being alone. But Mike, as sensible as he is, makes the wrong move and leaves Stan alone to speed walk towards Bev and Ben. Now Bill is left to stare at only the back of Stan’s head, unsure if he should walk up to his speed and start up conversation or to make like Georgie and run across to Richie and Eddie, put on the facade that _I’m better than you. Look how well I’m taking our “fight.” See, you’re the only one who’s affected._

In the end he still lags behind, looking on as Stan’s fists clench at his sides before he crosses his arms over each other. Looks like neither of them have the intent of pulling either move.

Fuck this, Bill decides, walking faster and faster and now Stan is just an arm’s length away, so–

“Don’t.”

What?

“You don’t get to do this,” Stan seethes, quiet for only the two of them to hear, but the words echo, their ripples bigger than the last and shatter in Bill’s chest. He falls behind again, looking as Stan runs towards Richie and Eddie, who entertain Georgie with their playful(?) banter. Tears bubble up and grip his throat, threatening to turn his eyes bloodshot and show the others what damage he’s done to both of them.

He continues the rest of the way to Bev’s house alone and behind, trying to subtly wipe away tears and to hush the sniffling that leaves his mouth.

* * *

Just like before (when everything was simpler), they’re sat around the telly in Bev’s room, watching Shark Tale, or something like that. He doesn’t really have the energy to focus, when so much of it is spent making happy thoughts ricochet harder than the ones that threaten his facade. His head begins to strain and his throat feels like he’s swallowed a rock. Hell, that would be a lot easier than trying not to look pathetic in front of his friends.

He doesn’t get very far into the first twenty minutes until Ben put a palm on his knee and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. 

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Bill says, flinching as not only does he stutter, but his voice also wavers in its pitch, cracking as it goes against the hypothetical stone lodged in his throat. He can’t hold this much longer. “Why?”

“Nothing, it’s just.” Ben gestures to his own face, gesturing specifically at his eyes, then points back at Bill. “Yeah, if you get my gist.”

“Oh.” Quickly he goes to the bathroom, locking the door (as you do) and examining himself in the mirror. Tears dew at his eyelashes and the bags under his eyes are starting to puff. He guesses there’s no use to holding it in now, and, as if on command, the tears that glass his eyes and fog his vision steadily fall from his eyes to his cheeks.

There’s not much; he’s not really full-blown sobbing, anyways. Just clean, minimal crying alone in his friend’s bathroom. Seems about right. He prays, prays to whatever god that was out there, prays to the God he’s learned about his whole life, that no one will bother to check on him. And, he guesses, the chances of that are pretty low (this isn’t a drama, after all), but there’s still Ben to worry about. Then again, there’s always something to worry about.

Bill figures it’s just better to drown himself in his shallow tears as he stares at his reflection, all quivering lips and blotchy red cheeks. _Pathetic,_ is his immediate thought. _Fucking pathetic. You’re really going to cry about this?_

Yes, he is.

_All because of him?_

Yes, of course.

_Are you not at all ashamed of what you’ve devolved into?_

In terms of shame? He’s sure if he could, he would never show his face again.

It doesn’t take long for him to realise he’s spiralling, something that hasn’t happened in a long time, if Bill remembers correctly. His head fills of what _was_ him and Stan, shattered by Bill’s amazing ability to break anything he touches. He clutches his head in his hands and leans into the counter, directing his crying towards his palms, now smeared with snot and tears. His hands are shaking, his whole body feels somewhat… constricting, cotton filling his buzzing head as he tries to block out thoughts that ought to do him worse. He’s disgusting, crying for shallow reasons, face twisted ugly as he tries and fails to strangle his tears with his hands and sheer force of will. 

Knowing he can’t possibly come out and demand comfort, he fishes his phone out to text anyone who could help.

_[AdBill]: scout  
help _

_[Scout]: oof what is it_  
_ im kinda like,,,, busy but  
this is you so like :P_

_[AdBill]: lmao_  
_ i need like  
a funny joke_

_[Scout]: oof uhhhhhhh  
i got tons of jokes about unemployed people _

_[AdBill]: yeah?  
what are they _

_[AdBill]: SCOUT  
WHAT ARE THEY _

_[Scout]: BUT_  
_BILLY, MY BOY,_  
_ MY TINY LITTLE HILLBILLY,  
NONE OF THEM WORK_

_[AdBill]: oof  
NOW YOU GOT ME SAYING OOF _

_ [Scout]: spread spread spread the *roblox death noise*  _

Bill starts to smile, but is still unfortunately spiralling. His hands are still shaking, his chest still pounding, thoughts of Bill, poor, shallow, tragic Bill, and how will he fix his mess, now filling his chest like a glass of water already brimming and full, yet the water keeps dripping.

Maybe he can ask someone else, someone _here._ He might regret it, sure, but it’s worth a shot.

_[Bill-bo Baggins]: help_  
_ go to bathroom  
don’t tell anyone why or where you’re going _

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: Daz fishy,, but,_  
_ Are you okay, dude?  
Ben says you’ve been acting weird_

_[Bill-bo Baggins]: tbh no_  
_ but please  
don’t tell anyone_

_[Bevvie ;0 ]: Do you want stan instead??  
I think he can handle this better than i can _

_[Bill-bo Baggins]: no please_  
_ bev  
just go here_

_ [Bevvie ;0 ]: Okay okay  _

It didn’t take long for Beverly’s quick steps to sound across the hall. She hesitates in front of the door, shown by the pregnant pause she takes before knocking. But it comes, with her fist striking the door twice and her hushed whisper of “Bill?”

“C-come in,” he replies meekly, still staring himself in the mirror, gripping his phone tightly in one hand and the edge of the sink with the other. Beverly rushes to his side and takes the phone from him, making his right hand drop heavily on the porcelain. There’s a tingling in his palms as he does, pinprick agony dotting each little crevice with the drop it takes on the sink. Beverly sighs, taking his newly freed hand in hers and encasing it with her nicely polished fingers.

“What’s wrong?” She whispers, the sound reverberating in the walls of her orange-glowing bathroom. It makes him flinch, as it wasn’t his weak cries and sniffling anymore. “Bill,” she urges, still quiet as a mouse, as if the other boys would hear them from here against the movie they were watching.

“It’s–It–i-i,” he stammers, unable to get past the first word now that he’s being asked to explain the thorns pricking his lungs and digging into his brain. “It’s—i-it’s–it’s…”

“It’s what?” She hurries. “Is it Audra? Is it your mother? Is it school?” Bill shrinks at the autocompletion of such a short statement. He knows, from years of having been put through this, that after this comes the impatience that would present itself in the chiffon-sheer coating of their voices. “What is it?”

_Please,_ he begs his tongue silently. _Let go of the words, let her understand._ His hands shake, and still his tongue refuses to relent, stubborn as the night’s sea, so Bill has no choice but to bury his woes into his palms and cry harder, let himself feel the pain of every consequence he deserves for being him and fucking things up. Beverly sighs again from beside him, and an arm snakes round his shoulders and pulls him closer towards the warm, summer energy of her. She rubs circles into his back.

“Let it out, dude,” she soothes, still unnaturally quiet for such a boisterous girl. “Just let it all out.” Again, she hesitates, drawing in a breath and slowing her pace on his back. “You sure you don’t want Stan?”

Bill shakes his head violently, almost certainly giving himself whiplash. The ugly grimace his face takes on is hidden behind his tingling fingers, numbing in their desperate attempt to soothe themselves when the rest of Bill is going haywire. Is this all he was; a hastily glued-together portrait of a child, ripping apart where ends meet?

He can refuse to be so, he’s been told many times. He can refuse and break free, but every time it happens he lets himself fall deeper into a shallow puddle.

“Hm,” Bev hums, stopping the patterned motion she’s gotten herself into and enveloping Bill from the side. She leans her head on his shoulder, breathing deeply as she does. “You feel better now?”

“S-sort of,” he squeaks out, taking away his hands from his face. A string of liquid oddities connecting his palm to his cheeks, some nasty mix of saliva, tears and snot. 

“Eugh,” Bev stares at the little dark space his hand shows to her, being barely two inches away from his face. She reaches over to the box of tissues on the sink and hands him one, which he uses to wipe his hands, then another for his nose. As he’s doing so, she comments a sly “one time I blew a bubble with my nose because I’m a disgusting child.”

Bill can’t help the (suspiciously bubble-like feeling that pops as it hits the tissue) snort that leaves him. 

Coming down from all of that wasn’t easy. The incident in the bathroom had made him unsightly, so Bev had to send him to the kitchen, away from everyone else. She then handed him a glass of water, some food and some more tissues, then went to make sure no one else was questioning where Bill was.

Of course, there’s nothing he can gain from being open about what’s happening. Telling them will result in outing Stan as the culprit for all of this. He doesn’t want to do that to Stan, at least not to hurt him. He’d maybe do it if it meant the others would try to convince him to forgive Bill. It’s an evil thought, red and blaring as sin, but Bill can’t help being flawed. It’s all he is, after all.

Bill pokes at the tiny slice of cake Bev gave him, not having the stomach to even think about eating it. It is, of course, the way the universe intended it to be when it decided to send down one Stanley Uris to gaze upon the awful sight of Bill post-spiral.

_Disgusting, you’re disgusting,_ is all that would play in his head. 

“H-hey,” he manages to stutter out, gripping his fork tighter in his hand. “W-what are you–”

“I came here to talk.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no.... he wants to talk.......( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> thanks for putting up with this arc so far! i bet you're all really frustrated with me (and bill, consequently lol). i know i am UwU so hey, if you like this story, please leave comments and kudos! god knows that's the only thing keeping me from stopping this thing altogether (jk)
> 
> come say hi! i'm @quipcrly on tumblr


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss to a gunshot wound doesn't make it better. The placebo does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiyaa !! a bit short but it's not like anything important happens (or is there? *side eyes emoji*)

“I came here to talk.” Stanley says, voice indifferent as it fills the air around the two. He walks closer towards the table and plops himself down on the chair next to Bill. They sit in silence for a while, the empty air ringing in Bill’s ears until he wishes he were deaf. He drops his fork on the plate.

“Y-you want sss…some–some ca–”

“I said I came here to _talk,_ not eat cake.” Their elbows, placed on their points at the edge of the table, grow in their distance as Bill inches away from Stan. The silence fills their ears again, this time stinging and pricking at skin, pulling like a mother forcing her kids to make up. Bill picks at his cake again, tearing it crumb by crumb, watching the sponge bounce back into place. Stan watches too, aware of their standstill, still refusing to talk like he said he came here for. 

“If–if you’d still h-have it,” Bill mutters out, crushing the chocolate shavings under his fork. “I’m sorry.” His voice grates against the stone in his throat, having reappeared again, shaped and helped by their awkward quiet that has never happened before. “I s-shouldn’t have gotten you i-involved in m-my shit.”

If Bill would be willing to amuse himself, at his own expense, he’d say the lull in their speech is a stutter. He’s made the joke many times before, he can make it again. Stan sighs and pulls at the front of his hair. A tic of his, Bill remembers unprompted, but right now isn’t a “how much do you know about Stanley Uris” competition, and Bill puts it aside, thinking it was all just an attempt to make himself feel better.

“Don’t get me wrong, Bill,” he says, still not quite looking at Bill’s eyes. “I’m not…upset with– I don’t… hate you. In fact, I don’t particularly know what to– I don’t know _how_ to feel. I-I’m… upset, I’m angry, I’m just. You have no fucking idea how frustrated you made me, I… Do you have any idea how much I want to fucking scream at you right now? I–”

“T-then do it,” Bill says quietly, the sound loud enough to reverberate in his head and cut through Stan’s monologue. 

“I–you… what?”

“G-go on.” _Let me feel your pain._ “Shout at m-me.”

“Why?”

“B-because you need it.” And, at that moment, it seemed the right response. He doesn’t know what would’ve happened had he said it, but it seemed correct. Like how two plus two is four, and how you’ll fall back down when you jump. Ah, well. Bill guesses this is his plummet after the jump, as Stan’s eyebrows furrow horrendously, and he opens his mouth to bare words of malice, most likely.

“Is that what you really think?” Stan says softly, looking at his hands, which start to open and close as he tries to decide what to feel. “That I _need_ to be mad at you?”

“N-no, I–”

“I said I’m not,” Stan continues, voice rising. “But you’re refusing to acknowledge what’s actually wrong here.”

“I–I d-don’t– _Stan_ ,” Bill begs, trying to reach out and touch even the tip of Stan’s fingers, but he only retracts, as if both of them were magnets of the same polarity. He keeps glaring at Bill, red flicking behind his eyes as he purses his lips thinly. 

“Don’t,” he says, repeating what he said earlier on. “You don’t get to fucking do this, Denbrough.” He stands throughout the process, putting himself at a higher position as such, Bill has to look up and cower. His voice is wavering, cracking as if he were about to cry. And Bill understands. He understands, but he doesn’t want Stan to cry. Stan, his golden boy, crying because of _him._

How pathetic of Bill.

Although now, he’s at an impasse, with Stan not wanting him to do anything, and him being too afraid to do anything. Unless…

“T-then what’s wrong?”

There’s a long pause, and they keep their eye contact, refusing to break. Stan’s eyebrows, although it looked impossible, seem to dip further, his lips contracting until they were a mere line on his face. Something boils behind his skin. Stan clenches his fists. Then he mutters something.

“Sorry, w-what was that?”

“I said I don’t fucking know!” He shouts, left fist landing on the table, sending the fork, unattended, to move around with obvious clatter.Bill can’t do anything. “It could be me,” Stan continues, voice still decibels louder than Bill would have liked. But he encouraged this, so he might as well see it to its death. “It could be you! I mean, _someone_ must have stopped fucking trying! Right?”

He raises both hands to his face and screams into his palms, muffling the sound and still leaving Bill dumbfounded on his seat. He finishes, wiping vigorously at his eyes, and Bill waits for a beat. He doesn’t stop, just keeps on rubbing aggressively, mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. Bill imagines his skin becoming pink, the stinging sensation increasing exponentially the longer he goes.

The thought terrifies him beyond words.

And as quick as thought, he’s in front of Stan and pulling desperately at his arms, tears already bubbling again at his eyes. “S-stan—”

“No! Don’t touch me!” He screams, kicking at Bill’s feet and turning away, still rubbing at his eyes, still peeling his skin red and raw.

“I-I’m just t-trying–trying to h-help—” 

“You–you were trying to help last summer, too,” Stan continues, almost sobbing, almost broken, as he tilts his head up and shrinks his posture down. “You said–you said you’d come back, and that we’d still be friends, and that somehow nothing would change.” Tears start to gather as bigger droplets in Bill’s eyes as he listens. “And I just—I fucking believed you like an idiot, and you lied. You _lied_ to me, Bill, and now you’re trying to act like you didn’t.”

Bill’s tears start to flow, and he wants to scream. Scream everything he wanted to when he watched Stan disappear back into his house from the windowsill. Scream all his inner turmoil and pent-up agony, that inevitably Stan lies at the centre of it all. He wants to scream how much he hates himself for falling in love with the summer, and with it, the people he met.

He wants to scream how much he loved him.

Yet he can’t, because there’s no such thing as _them_. Just Stan and Bill, and Bill and Stan. They were together, yet separate, and Bill wants those last two words gone as well as many other things in his life. But he can’t.

“Sorry,” he mutters, losing his grip on himself and on Stan. “I’m sorry I m-made you feel that way.” He doesn’t add any _but’s_ , as there’s no room for redemption with what he pulled. Inconsiderate, impulsive, self-destructing Bill Denbrough. It’s only right. He pulls Stan into an embrace, and his elbows dig into Bill’s rib. “S-stop rubbing at your e-eyes, okay? Y-you’ll hurt yourself.”

“But I don’t want to cry,” Stan mutters, resting his head (and consequently his hands) on Bill’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to see me cry.” _Again_ , Bill tacks on in his own head. _He doesn’t want me to see him cry again._

Slowly, surely, Stanley lowers his hands from his face. His arms snake around Bill.

“Y-you want some cake?” Bill asks.

“Okay.”

And so there is a bandaid on their wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha! I love my idiots who aren't in love!! don't you? (jk)
> 
> please leave comments and kudos! i like hearing ya'll complain abt them
> 
> come say hi! I'm @quipcrly on tumblr


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lurks in the forest is none of our business. But we're little shits, so we'll make it ours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last one before finals!! then i'll see ya'll in december bc ;;;; school stuff

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out their predicament. It does, however, take gods and magic and miracles to figure out a solution. 

Bill Denbrough and Stanley Uris are still not “okay.” At least, not as okay as they were before this whole ordeal they’ve gotten themselves into. They aren’t fighting, they aren’t inherently ignoring each other. But everything just doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel _good_. _It doesn’t feel the same._

Bill wakes up around five every morning, each time rueing the fact that he does. As he stares out the window of their dad’s old room, he sees the perfect, elegant figure of Stan already three blocks down the street and well on his way to the quarry for his early morning bird-watching. He doesn’t bother to dress and catch up, because who knows what boundaries Stan has now that things have changed between them and everything else.

Although have things actually changed? He isn’t too sure, but the _something_ in the air is no longer familiar. 

The reconciling hug with Stan back in Bev’s house brings about newfound bitterness, as the mild, sweet scent of lavender detergent has been replaced with something strong and citrusy, like the smell of lemonade that’s left itself on an empty bottle. He’s lost the kippah now, which, back then, he would wear not daily, but often. Now it’s simply gone, as if he’d never worn it in the first place.

There is no more intimate moments between them. No more hand-holding or moments alone or private conversations even when amongst the rest of their friends. It’s been replaced with the space of adjacency, refusing to look at each other unless one of their jokes is replied to by the other.

Their friends don’t take long to realise something between them is off. In fact, they realise the minute after that hug happened that something is happening, or has happened between Stan and Bill. It’s hard not to, with Stan screaming bloody murder as Bill lets it all happen. They were, after all, under just one roof. They asked if anything was wrong, to which they both replied that no, nothing is wrong at all.

Then they went back to Bev’s room and sat as far away from each other as possible.

Bev and the others don’t seem to try anything to push them back together, like when times were simpler and less filled with Bill’s supposed feelings for Stan. But then again, they don’t seem all too keen on whatever’s happening. 

They prod and ask and intrude, and none of their questions Bill can really answer. It’s not like he knows what’s happening. In fact, out of all of them, he’s the most clueless one on the situation.

All that’s left of “before” is his and Stan’s snapchat streak, unbroken since they started again during the whole ordeal as it started back in the school year. It was easy to maintain, as Bill didn’t have a lot of them and Stan is very strict with his routine. So that app is what he has open now, the numbers telling him it’s been around seventeen days since it started.

It’s time for him to reinstate his plan, this time revised. 

He takes a black picture, types out a request then sends it to Stan. Stan, as per habit, even if it is a quarter to twelve at night, opens it immediately.

_Okay._ Says the snap he sends back.

Bill doesn’t sleep.

* * *

The clock on his phone shows it’s a quarter to five, and so he has to stand and be on his way. He gets up, fixes his hair, and decides he doesn’t need to change from his pyjama shorts and band shirt. Stan can deal with that. (Bill, however, now that he thinks about it, will absolutely lose his shit and his common sense if Stan were to wear something similar.)

When he walks out of his front door, it’s 5:03, and Stan’s patiently waiting in the middle of the road, counting something on his fingers. Bill jogs over.

“Hey,” he greets, finding himself all giddy like a child. “Y-you wait long?”

“A bit, yeah,” Stan replies mindlessly, looking him over. “It’s okay, though. I know it’s hard to get used to again.”

“Y-yeah,” Bill mutters. “Sorry.” As he says it, it seems like Stan’s eyes start to roll, but he catches himself. They go on their way.

“Did you sleep?” Stan asks, brushing away the front of his hair that gets in his eyes. Pretty. “Like, at all?”

“A little,” Bill lies, thumbing the hem of his shorts. “I w-wasn’t too tired.”

Stan smiles a bit and lets himself roll his eyes. “If you say so.” They pass by white picket fences. The cafe. The ice cream store. The movie theatre. Maybe if Bill’s lucky, they’ll hang out around here. He remembers the “fight” back in the public pool from last year.

When they get to the outskirts of the forest, he expects the same as last year, with Stan grabbing his hand and leading him through. He’s met with disappointment when he’s not. He lags behind, if not actually moving. Stan steps into deeper parts, and still he’s watching him work through the clearing of Tamarack. 

“Bill, we don’t have all day,” Stan says impatiently, pausing to turn around once he notices Bill never actually moved from his spot on the road. 

“Mm,” Bill hums, entering the wood and stepping closer to Stan. “I j-just expected something else, i-is all.” They continue walking, hurrying towards the quarry.

“What do you expect? It’s a forest.” 

“I-I don’t know,” Bill provides, still lying through his teeth. “P-pennywise, I guess.”

Stan stares at him a beat, fingers wrapped around each other to crack his knuckles. They each go off with a pop. Then he laughs. “I can’t believe you still remember that.”

“F-fuck you, y-you know?” Bill says. “For a bit b-back then, I thought you w-were actually gonna murder me.”

“That’s hot.”

“What?”

“Murder, I mean.” Stan creeps closer to Bill. 

“That d-doesn’t quite justify anything.” Their hands brush, swift and feathery. It sparks something in Bill. That Stan’s not necessarily starting the affection, but that doesn’t mean Bill can’t try. He reaches, rather tentatively, and brushes their hands together again. Stan doesn’t seem to pull back.

Stanley opens his mouth to say something in reply, but a rustle from elsewhere interrupts him. He grips tightly on Bill’s shoulder. “Shit,” he whispers, breath tickling Bill’s ear. “What was that?”

“M-maybe a bird?” He offers, except inside his heart is jittery and abnormal, and he can’t quite choose between it being about the strange, unusually loud rustling, or the fact that Stan’s standing as close as he is. “I don’t–I d-don’t know.”

“Are you scared, Bill?”

He remembers last summer. He pulls away from Stan, just then. “S-stanley, I swear to g-god, if this is j-just like last year—”

“It’s not,” Stan tries to assure him. “I swear, that wasn’t me.”

“L-lia–” Bill starts to accuse, until just then he spots something move from afar. Something not so animalistic, not so tiny. It’s about as out of place as they are amongst the woods. 

“Oh god,” Stan whispers, inching closer towards Bill again. “Do you think that’s—”

“Don’t,” Bill warns. “Don’t.” The dark, their proximity, something terrifying. It all seems like the perfect mix for something sinister. Stand By Me-esque, pre-movie incident of Ray Brower, except it’s the two of them falling victim to the local murderer. Is that still even happening? It probably is. Better to be safe than sorry, however. “Fuck this,” he announces, then grabs Stan’s hand and bolts off toward the direction they came from, out towards the road, and yet he doesn’t stop. 

He keeps them running, adrenaline serving as their coffee for the day until they pass white picket fences and get to the centre of town. No stores are open, in fact, there’s no one out. The greyed-out ultramarine of the sky paints Stanley beside him in cool greys and neutral blues. He’s gripping his knees and leaning over, panting heavily and trying to regulate his breathing. He looks over at Bill.

“What the fuck,” he says, then laughs, the sound echoing in the empty air and bouncing back from the walls, no other person to block its path. “Dude, I… think we just encountered the local cryptid.”

Bill straightens himself out, and lets out a small breath of air that could be excused as a laugh. “You sound s-so straight,” he jokes, completely disregarding the Very Concerning Thing that had just happened. “U-using _dude_ and stuff.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “What do you want me to do, _bro_?” he says, in a stereotypical movie frat boy voice that could put Richie to shame. “What’s wrong with it, _man_? Is it not… _lit_ enough for you, _homie_? Yolo, hashtag, grind _._ ”

“Oh god, p-please stop,” Bill laughs, which makes Stan do so as well. 

They go on for a bit, riding out their laughter and being the kids they are. It’s like things are back to normal, when Bill didn’t like guys and Stan didn’t care anyway. When their giggling dies out, Stan’s the first to speak up.

“So what now?” He says, losing his fake accent and going back to his usual, melodic, Stan-like voice. “We can’t go back to the quarry after…that. We just go home? There’s not much else to do.” He gestures to all the shops, almost all of them dimmed with the rest of the world sleeping. Almost.

“You have m-money on you?”

“Yes, but–”

“W-wanna go to McDonald’s?”

* * *

Stan ended up saying yes. Bill doesn’t know why; Stan doesn’t seem like a spontaneous, shouting “McDonald’s! McDonald’s! McDonald’s!” at your dad from the backseat as you pass by McDonald’s, type of guy. In fact, right when he’d asked, he’d expected Stan to pull a face, say he’d rather die than eat fast food, and make them both continue walking until they’re in the confines of their own homes. 

Guess that was the old Stan. Or, now that he thinks about it, something more of an Eddie thing to do, and Stan would just say a simple no. Either way, the answer would have been a no.

“And _then_ I got Shark, which was a bad idea, because he was just… very into sharks.”

“W-wait, wait, so y-you’re telling me _Richie_ named all of y-your cats?” 

“Yeahp,” Stan says, taking a fry and stuffing it into his mouth with one clean movement, and no ketchup. He brushes off whatever salt was left on his hands. “Also, you know what else? And this isn’t about my cats anymore, but there was something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Bill’s heart stops. Something good pops in his head. A confession, maybe? No, not possible. But then again, a lot of things have been changing. Maybe it’s something bad, too. He doesn’t know what the _bad_ thing would be, seeing as they’ve already resolved everything (kind of. Bill’s not sure). Nevertheless, he feels like the wind’s been stolen from his lungs.

“Y-yeah?”

“Back in Bev’s house, when you told me to shout at you…” Yeah. Bill’s going to die today. “That was sort of kinky. Yeah. If five years from now I find out you’re into that I’m going to… well, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Bill throws a fry at him. “W-what’s with you and calling t-things hot or kinky today?”

“What?” Stan laughs. He picks up the fry and wraps it carefully in tissue. “It’s funny.”

“I d-don’t get you.”

“And neither does anyone else. You’re not quite special.” They both laugh.

There’s change, Bill is made aware. But it’s good. He can live with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp!* PEEN WIDE ?!
> 
> sankyu 4 read ;;;; leave comments...... kudos...
> 
> come say hi! I'm [@quipcrly](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And perhaps I should pay attention to the words you're spewing, not the graceful ways your lips move nor the sunlight lining you like a halo. Your hands are so close to mine, soft to the touch, leaving feather-soft marks in their wake.
> 
> It's disgusting, how taken I am for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmmm i'm p sure i said the earliest i'd update is december but uhhhh i finished this and my school works early. it's a halloween miracle. Speaking of which, happy hanlonweeeeen !!!!!!!!

They aren’t, perhaps, back to daily birdwatching like they used to. It’s often, not always, when Bill manages to wake up early and catch up with Stan on his way to the quarry. This is one of those days, and they’re nearing the end of their watch, keeping conversation short and staggered.

“Are you out?” Bill asks, just as the question crosses his mind. Stanley doesn’t take the binoculars from his face.

“Out?” He asks, shifting his gaze from one point to another with a little tilt of his head. “I’m outside.”

“D-don’t act stupid,” Bill laughs. “I m-meant if you told anyone else, l-like, over the school year.” And it’s genuine curiosity, perhaps, that drives him to ask. Or maybe the lingering feeling of longing of wanting to be the only one. The only one who _knows,_ at least.

Stan lowers the binoculars, and with it, his gaze. He looks blankly at his feet, dangling off the side of the cliff. He heaves a sigh. “I know,” he says, voice tinted with shame. “And no, you’re… the only one.”

There’s a bit of a distance between their pinkies, a few millimetres of space that keeps them asymptotic. For once, with Stan admitting something he’s ashamed of, and Bill longing for the handholding he once knew as platonic, there is something like the ghost of confidence. He reaches.

“T-that’s okay,” he says, as soon as his hand lightly touches Stan’s. “If y-you’re not ready, you shouldn’t f-force yourself to do anything.”

“That’s the thing,” Stan replies, not pulling away from their point of contact. Bill curls his fingers around Stan’s. It’s almost rewarding, the adrenaline each new thing gives him; nerve-wracking, filling his head with worries of _‘has he gone too far?’_ and the answer, surprisingly, is no. “I don’t know why I’m not telling them. I mean, maybe they already know? They probably do, it’s just— ah, um…”

Stan takes his hand from Bill’s, and latches on to his necklace. The blue, polymer one, still in pristine condition because… well, it’s Stan. Bill likes to pretend he’s surprised whenever he asks if that was the one he gave Stanley for Christmas. He also likes to pretend the reason Stan changed necklaces was because he liked Bill’s present, and inherently, he liked Bill. It’s fun, giving himself a little secret, weaving a fantasy world where the chances of him becoming an astronaut were smaller than his crush liking him back, and not the other way around.

“You know what I’m considering, though,” Stan continues a bit quieter, letting his voice be as wispy as the clouds, like thin, pulled-apart cotton in the sky. “Coming clean to my parents. Um, I told them about my little… head issues, and they were… surprisingly supportive? Mom offered to take me to therapy.”

“Mhm,” Bill says, for lack of better response. “Yeah?”

“I also told them that I don’t believe in... yeah, anymore.”

“What,” Bill gasps. “H-how’d they take it?”

“Not as well as the first one,” Stan confesses with a sheepish smile gracing his lips. “We’re not actually discussing it, as of now. I’m scared that they’ll just want to talk about it more out of the blue, and I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“W-what about your d-dad, though?”

“I’m not sure, nothing’s physically changed, but I feel like I’m being choked when I’m around him.” He looks at Bill, eyes glistening, and Bill feels his heart break. “I mean, he’s a stubborn rabbi, and he won’t hesitate to kick you out of the house if you don’t pay attention to the prayer.” Stan sighs. “I don’t know how he’ll take me being gay.” He puts his hand back down, the thin, needle-sized distance between them making its return. Bill sort of looks at it a while.

“Isn’t that k-kind of… bad?”

Stan thinks for a while, and he tilts his head slightly, bathing himself with the rays of the early morning sun. They’re taking longer than usual at the quarry today. “I don’t think it is,” Stan admits. “We have our misunderstandings. But in the end, he’s my dad, and…yeah.” He reaches up to wipe at one of his eyes, but his other hand stays put, with the distance between them, ever-approaching, never touching. Bill feels that burst of confidence again.

He scoots closer, and takes Stan’s right hand with both of his. He decides to stop flip-flopping his attention between what Stan is saying and how close their hands are, because Bill, that’s not what’s important. Bill drags out Stan’s hand towards his lap, holds it in his right and uses his left arm to reel Stan in closer. 

“It’s o-okay, Stan,” he soothes, squeezing the ball of Stan’s shoulder. “I’m h-here, if ever you w-wanna come out.”

“To my parents or to our friends?” Stan leans his head on Bill’s shoulder. His hair tickles Bill’s neck.

“B-both?” There’s a sigh and a smile. Bill doesn’t look over to see it, but he feels it come softly on Stan.

“Thanks, Bill.”

* * *

_3:25 AM_

_ [Stan]: I’ve decided.  _

_ [Bill  <3]: oh ur up lol  
what’s up?  _

_ [Stan]: Sorry, did I wake you?  _

_ [Bill  <3]: yeah  
ffft it’s never bothered u before tho so w/e  _

_ [Stan]: Haha, okay, Bill.  
Sorry, sorry.  _

_ [Bill  <3]: so  
what did u decide so early in the mornign  _

_ [Stan]: Morning, Bill.  _

_ [Bill  <3]: good morning, stan <33  _

_ [Stan]: I’m beginning to regret this.  _

_ [Bill  <3]: jkdsnjskds NO DON’T what is it  _

_ [Stan]: First off, keysmashing is gay culture. You’re gay.  
Second, I think I’m gonna tell the others.  _

_ [Bill  <3]: OH NICE  
when???  _

_ [Stan]: Umm… today? Ask them to hang out, maybe.  _

_[Bill <3]: false pretences ofc ofc_  
_jk_  
_stan i’m so proud of you_  
_it’s so early in the morning and my heart is so FULL_

_ [Stan]: Of blood, like normal.  _

_[Bill <3]: no of love_  
_               i don’t…… feel like i say this a lot but/em>_  
_               ily  
              i really do _

_[Stan]: 3 am does wonders to your obviously sleep-deprived brain._  
_Go to sleep, Bill._  
_That last comment makes it seem like you need it._

* * *

Waking up and rerunning the texts in his head makes him an odd cocktail of feelings. He’s giddy, as he should be, restlessly smiling, and couldn’t stay still at all. He ate while walking, he ran around the house. He jumps up and down when the impulse comes. It also makes him uncomfortable with himself, like his skin was pulled taut and choking him. He was a sling, pulled back, ready for release, but never let go of.

How he longed for that release, but still, he doesn’t know how he’ll go about it.

He gets it, he’s on that childish “I jokingly told my crush I liked them and I didn’t exactly get rejected” high. But he also understands he has to keep himself calm, for the sake of the people in the same house as he is not thinking he’s gone mad overnight. Also, he doesn’t want to risk making Stan uncomfortable on this Very Important Day.

When it was time for him to meet Stan outside, his mind is everywhere and nowhere, running through thoughts like a radio with nothing good on. It doesn’t help that the pseudo sugar-high he’s on gets him susceptible to being a lot more irritable, proven by him shouting at Georgie when he tried to insist to come with Bill. That earned him a scolding from his mom.

Fuck. He’s going to ruin today, isn’t he?

He’s on his toes with his heart trying to shatter his ribcage when he meets eyes with Stan at the doorstep. With no warning, Stan embraces him tightly. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” he whispers, voice shaking and so, so close to breaking. “I-I don’t–I don’t –”

Bill’s mouth runs dry, his inkwell of thoughts is now just an empty bottle. He’s never been in Stan’s position before. He’s never really had to _come out_ to anyone. All he had to do was admit to Audra and Patty that he liked a boy he’ll only see in the summer, and they never really talked about the nuances of it all. 

He’s never really cared, in general.

“A-are you going to cry?” He asks, instead, the question stupid in his head and stupid as he was saying it. His jaw clenches at the thought.

“Bold of you to assume I’m not already crying,” Stan replies.

“But y-you’re not,” Bill supplies, noting the lack of snivelling and tears on his shoulder. 

“Okay, fine.” Stan pulls away abruptly, an unamused face gracing his features. “If you want me to cry, you can just ask. I’m ready to cry on command all the time.”

“N-no, I’m–I didn’t mean…” He’s trying, so, so hard not to ruin anything today. Why is everything so difficult once you’ve set his mind to something, he wonders. He could, of course, go into the nuances, all those little truth tables that come into play, but Stan’s moving his lips, saying something Bill isn’t paying attention to but should. He tries to focus in.

“…gain, I mean–maybe I shouldn’t? What’s the point, I’ll just get a boyfriend and tell them I have someone then introduce them, and then that’s my coming out thing. Good plan, right?”

_I’m sorry,_ “g-get a what now?” Bill breathes, only half-assedly translating what was in his head to words.  

Stan stares at him, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed in thinking. He lifts a finger to his chin, slowly, almost comically, then extends it just as slowly towards Bill as he opens his mouth again to speak. “You should be my boyfriend.”

Metaphorically, if he had one, Bill would’ve spat his drink.

“No.” _Oh my god, I’d love to._ “I love you, but I’m straight.”

“Ouch. Way to no homo me. I’ll just find some rando to do it, then.” Stan steps off the stairs and gestures for Bill to follow. Bill, meanwhile, is stuck sandwiched between the contrast of his tongue and his mind.

Getting to the topic of Stan was hard, to say the least. As soon as they got there, they were both pulled into “tardy noogies,” courtesy of Richie. Following was the usual… whatever they did. Bill’s not sure. Amongst all the merrymaking, however, it was almost as if Stan forgot the reason he called for this in the first place.

Bill, however, never forgets.

The whole time the others were messing around, he sat stone-still, wondering when Stan would muster up the courage to just tell them. It’s not that hard. Even Bill could do it. Though somehow, he knows he won’t. 

When he finds Stan next to him, panting from laughter, Bill elbows him hard in his side. 

“What?” Stan hisses, reaching out to grip at the area. Bill gestures to the others, seemingly uninterested with whatever Bill and Stan are discussing. “I’m getting to it, okay?” Bill rolls his eyes.

“H-hey, guys,” he says, projecting his voice as loud as he can. “Stan h-has something he wants to–” 

His stupid stint of announcing Stan’s intents comes to a stop with Stan’s hand clamping his mouth shut. “I can do it myself, Bill,” Stan says with a glare. It softens a bit as he takes a deep breath, turning towards the rest of their friends and taking his hand away from the general area of Bill’s face. He settles his increasingly clammy hand on Bill’s knee instead, his grip firm for comfort, and Bill has to keep repeating to himself not to think too much of it.

“Actually, I have something important to tell you guys…” Stan grips his knee hard, and Bill musters all his strength into trying not to look at it.

“Yeah?” Mike says, eerie discomfort present and overwhelming his tone. They all wait with bated breath.

Stan swallows from beside Bill. He watches Stan’s thin lips fold in and relax as he sighs. “I’m…” Stan starts, hesitance making him waver in his usually deliberate manner. “I'm gay.” There’s a pause, longer than it should be, filling Bill’s ears with buzzing, and why is he nervous? It’s Stan that should be nervous. Why are Bill’s hands suddenly shaky as he reaches out to put his hand on Stan’s? Why is no one saying anything? Why is–

“Oh, thank god,” Ben says. “We thought it was gonna be something bad.”

“Is this some subtle way to tell us you and Bill are dating?” Bev says, excitement ever-present in her lilt. 

“No?” Stan laughs awkwardly. Bill can only gulp his frustrations down. “That's never gonna happen, guys.” 

The confidence in that sentence as Stan brushes their comment off so simply has Bill blindly looking for a way to turn back time and make himself not go out that day he met all of them. Stan is right, however. They’re never going to happen. What with Bill’s constant need to always have something go wrong in his life and how Stanley is simply too good for him.

“I remember Eds saying that!” Richie exclaims, wrapping his arm around Eddie beside him. “And look where we are now!”

“Look, gays, first it’s me and Ben, then it’s Richie and Eddie. It’s either you and Bill or you and Mike.”

“Me and Mike,” Stan answers immediately. “One, he’s bi. Two, he’s got muscles. What does Bill have going on for him? Heterosexuality?”

“I mean, is he actually straight?” Mike says, completely ignoring what Stan had said about him. “He’s never really said anything.”

“Yeah, he has!” Eddie interjects excitedly. Bill holds his breath, afraid his charade has come to an end. Stan eyes Bill questioningly, the air tensing around the general area Stan was looking at. He quickly lets go of Stan’s hand. “Once, don’t you guys remember?”

“Eds, babe, that was a dream.”

“Don’t call me that–” 

Both Stan and Bill seem to sink back into their seats, but for wildly different reasons. Bill just can’t wait to go home and wallow in his own heartbreak and self-pity.

* * *

For the rest of an eternity, Bill couldn’t bring it within himself to laugh as hard as he usually does and to say the bare minimum of words he could say. Stan’s tiny comment was ruining him, which might not have been the intended effect. What is it with him? He had no chance in the first place. Why is this catching up to him again? Now, of all times, when he’s around other people, and–Wait. 

It’s just him and Stan now, walking back home. How long had he been dissociating? Had they been walking in silence this whole time? From the solemn look on Stan’s face as he walked steady steps beside Bill, the answer should be yes. He wants to ask if Stan is okay, but why shouldn’t he be? He’d just came out, and nothing went wrong. What’s there to reassure?

Bill’s breath hitches in his throat when Stan looks up to catch his eyes. He gives Bill a soft smile, something akin to a mother about to comfort her son, and it’s like he’s going to soften the blow of whatever he’s going to say next. Bill is terrified, to say the least.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, as if it weren’t just the two of them walking down the streets. “You’ve been acting weird all day.”

“I-It’s…” _It’s you. And me. And this distance between friend and lover that should be so close but so far._ “Nothing. I j-just remembered I y-yelled at G-g-georgie this m-morning, sss…so I think m-my mom is mad.” And damn, he forgot about his own stupid stutter that betrayed him when he lies. Stan knows this, Bill knows this, and they both know who’s the liar between both of them.

Nevertheless, Stan takes Bill’s hand with his own, which barely went around Bill’s closed fist. “It’s okay,” he says with that soft smile that made Bill so weak to Stan. “You can stay at my house for a bit.”

And that’s the last thing he wants to do. He just wants to be away from here, trying to deny that Stan had just said the truth Bill had managed to forget. So it’s only right that he says, “okay.”

Like the goddamn idiot Bill Denbrough is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O w O ? W h a t ' s t h i s ?
> 
> anyway, next chapter is the last one for this summer !!!! then we get the lesbians :DD
> 
> come say hi! i'm [@quipcrly](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, at the edge of our time. Do I tell you what's on my mind or what's in my heart? Neither. I am what you make me out to be.

What Bill hadn’t known when Stan said “stay at my house for a bit,” was two things.

One, he’s having dinner with them. 

It’s cool. He’s had lunch at Stan’s before, pieces of cheese slapped on bread, as Stan said the food they currently had wouldn’t be to Bill’s liking. Technically, he had been talking about soup that had congealed in the fridge which they couldn’t heat up because their microwave was broken; neither of them trusted themselves to use the oven or the pans without burning the Uris house down. 

However, eating Mrs. Uris’ roasted chicken and baby potatoes was like having home in his stomach. If he’d known her cooking was this good, he would’ve stayed for dinner long ago. Though there was one thing stopping him.

He looks up again, and there they are. The piercing gaze of Mr. Uris’ judging eyes. Bill shouldn’t have looked in the first place. He looks back down. No amount of nudging from Stan nor under the table texts that never looking up from the table is rude will ever get Bill to look up, only to catch the fires of hell ready to eat him up instead.

He doubts Mr. Uris could be that bad, but Stan’s stories make him sound terrifying, and the way he’s looking at Bill seems to assert this predilection. It’s as if he can’t breathe, and Bill swears to god if he has a panic attack now because of a middle-aged man’s stare, he’ll never hear the end of it from Stan. God, imagine how embarrassing that must be, your friend, finally sitting down with your parents for more than two minutes and having a panic attack. 

Beyond that, he can’t even stop thinking about what had happened at the quarry. His thoughts somehow cut themselves off and tie their ends with how terrified he was of Mr. Uris right now. Whatever it was, the Uris men really have some sort of way with scaring Bill down to his bones. 

It’s not until Mrs. Uris speaks up that Bill can finally take his mind off of things. “How’s the food, Bill?” She asks, pushing around the food on her plate. Alarmed at the sound of his name, Bill jolts his head up, dangerously close to making direct eye contact with Mr. Uris. His mouth is still full of potatoes, so he covers his lips with a hand and chews until he could swallow all of it.

“I-it’s amazing, M-mrs. Uris. I’m g-glad y-you let me join f-for dinner.” And, as if to make his point, shoves a good amount of chicken into his mouth. He goes back to bowing his head.

“Why, it’s no big deal, Bill. Any friend of Stan’s is welcome here. And again, call me Andrea.”

“O-of course,” he says, making a brief attempt to look up and meet her eyes, just to be polite. “S-sorry. Thank you a-again.”

“You’re such a nice boy. Right, Donald?” she remarks, nudging her husband with a knowing smile. He grunts in response. “Say, you have anyone back in, uh…”

“California, mom,” Stan fills in impatiently. “It’s California.” 

“Yeah, California. You have anyone? A girl?”

“Oh, n-no,” says Bill quickly, almost awkwardly cutting her off. “I d-don’t really think a-about girls too much. F-future first, y-you know?” _Yeah. I’m too busy thinking about your son and how much I want to kiss him again._

“Of course,” Mrs. Uris says, satisfied. She looks at her husband, and they share a look that was maybe good. And that was dinner, awkward and cringe-worthy. 

Second, he’s staying the night.

“He likes you,” Stan comments, as soon as he closes the door behind Bill. “I’m sure he does.”

“W-who?” Bill asks, sitting on the bed. Stan strides over to his closet to rummage for some things. 

“My dad, stupid.” Stan looks at him, something almost prideful glittering in his eyes. “He likes you.”

“W-what makes you say that?” Bill remembers the way Mr. Uris stared at him all through dinner. There’s no way Screw-Up Bill had managed to earn _Donald Uris’_ approval. It’s near impossible, almost imaginary.

“He didn’t say anything, did he?” Stanley provides, smiling. “You two haven’t really been in the same room for long. If you saw him with the others, he’d always be bombarding them with questions. Then they leave and he tells me they’re ‘no-good kids.’” 

“T-that’s rough, man,” Bill says, for the sake of a response. He’s nothing special, he’s certain. There’s no reason for Mr. Uris to treat him so. “I-I’m pretty sure i-it’s the stutter.”

“Bill,” Stan whines. “I know my dad. He likes you.” He finishes searching for what he was looking for. He goes over to the bed, piles of clothes in his arms. He hands the top pile to Bill.

“W-what’s this?” Bill looks at it, stunned. He doesn’t take it just yet. 

“Clothes for the night,” Stan answers, as if it’s no big deal. He shoves the clothes into Bill’s hands, and Bill stares at it like an idiot. 

“Oh,” Bill says mindlessly, before it all settles in. _Wait a minute_. “F-for the _night?_ ”

“Yeah, you’re not sleeping in your jorts.” Stan rolls his eyes then walks away with his own pile of clothes, presumably to change elsewhere. Bill doesn’t get it. This is Stan’s house. Why is Stan the one leaving the room to change? Shouldn’t that be Bill?

While he’s at it, he might as well question Stanley’s sudden decision to have Bill stay the night. It’s not that anything’s wrong. He must be overestimating how “mad” Bill’s mom would be for him yelling at Georgie. If he were Stan, he’d be more worried about Georgie, if ever. He should stop thinking about this.

Instead, he’ll repeat what happened today like a shallow idiot who had nothing better to do. He thinks about it as he takes off his pants and replaces it with Stan’s pyjamas. He thinks about it as he lays down on the bed. He thinks about it as he stares blankly at the ceiling, waiting for the boy that caused all of this.

Think about it. The golden boy he was so enamoured with, slashing his heart with four simple words.

_That’s never gonna happen._

And indeed, it won’t.

He only stops thinking about it when Stan comes back, clad in blue pinstripe pyjamas. He may just be the only 15 year-old in the world who can pull off a matching set. Or that’s Bill’s own bias fogging his thoughts again. Either way, there’s no change in his elegance. Bill almost forgets it all.

“Are they too small?” Stan asks, missing the bed to go towards his writing desk. He fiddles with his trinkets for a bit, back turned to Bill.

The pants are a bit tight around the middle seam, but it’s nothing Bill can’t live with.There’s also that he’s grown a bit taller than Stan over the school year, so this is to be expected. “No, t-they’re fine.”

With that, Stan looks at him again. He turns away from the desk and starts making small steps toward the bed. When he gets to the edge of the bed, both knees already on the mattress, Bill moves over. 

“Spread your arm out,” he says, pointing at Bill’s arm closest to him. Bill follows without question. He begins to think maybe he should have asked why when Stan crawls in next to him and lays his head on Bill’s arm. 

“Y-you have pillows,” Bill observes. Stan nods his head. “W-why can’t you u-use that.”

“My house,” Stan says slowly. “My rules.”

“S-should I move somewhere else?”

“We don’t have a guest room.”

“The c-couch?”

“No.”

“On t-the floor, then.”

“That’s uncomfortable.

“D-don’t you have an air m-mattress?”

“No.”

“I c-can make a b-bed with a pillow a-and sheets.”

“My sheets’ll get dirty, Bill. Just sleep on the bed, okay?” Stan sighs impatiently. 

“Y-you’re sure?” Bill says, one last time, because he’s not too sure if Stan’s actually letting him sleep on the bed. But Stan’s head is on his arm, and they’re so close together. Why is Bill resisting? This is more than a dream come true. 

“Please stop,” Stan shuts him up with a groan and a yawn. “I really want to sleep. Today was tiring.”

“O-okay. If you sss…say so.” Bill thinks it over again in his head, how they’re never going to happen. Maybe he was right all along. Maybe _Stan_ was right all along. No matter how close, the distance between what they are and what Bill wants to be is impossible to bridge, given the circumstances. He could ask, pretend it’s all moonshine. Pretend he’s just curious.

He’s going to ask.

“D-did you really m-mean that, back there?”

“Mean what?” Stan whispers as he turns over. Bill does the same, keeping his arm in place where Stan lay his head. Their faces were so close now. The last time they had this short of a distance, something like this was happening; a secret being uttered in the air. Except now, Bill isn’t too sure it’s a secret. More of his insecurities.

“T-the quarry,” Bill supplies. “H-how we’re never going t-to happen.”

“Why?” Stan smirks, rubbing at his eyes, so close to falling asleep. Maybe Bill should stop. “Anything bothering you?”

“N-not at a-all,” Bill lies, reminding himself to keep his stutter in check so he could maybe not tip the other boy off. “J-just curious.”

“I don’t know,” Stan says, turning back to face the ceiling. Bill takes in this angle of Stan, staring thoughtfully up at nothing and everything. There’s a twinkle of effort in his eyes. How beautiful. “Do you think we’re never going to be a thing?”

“D-depends, really,” he says. “W-what’s the only t-thing keeping us apart?”

Stan chuckles, and the answer really seems to be staring at them both in the face. Bill’s game of pretend. Stan’s lack of interest. “You’re straight. I’m not particularly looking.”

“T-then there,” Bill says, having played himself. He’d ended up answering his own question. “A l-lot can still h-happen, though. A-after all, i-it’s not b-b-being straight t-that’s a phase.”

“Did you just make a gay joke?”

“Y-yeahp.”

Stan hits his stomach lightly. “We’re a thing,” he says, matter-of-factly. Bill is almost filled with hope. “Somewhere out there, according to the multiverse theory, there’s a universe where we’re dating.”

“S-suppose in that u-universe, Richie isn’t a l-little shit?” They both laugh.

“Probably,” Stan says. “Hopefully. There’s multiple ones out there.”

“I-infinite, actually,” Bill says, remembering how Patty explained it to him back then. “T-there’s an infinite n-number of universes.”

“Oh.” Stan puts a finger to his chin. “Then there’s an infinite number of universes where we’re dating.”

“J-just not this one?”

“Just not this one,” Stan says that last one with a yawn, and when Bill looks over he’s already asleep. The lamp is still on, and their corner of the room is painted yellow in the process. Bill really should be heartbroken by such a conversation, but having Stan admit that they’re somehow a thing makes him giddy all over. He somehow feels it’s better to keep thinking about those four words uttered in the quarry, making himself believe it’s utterly impossible.

Whenever Stan moves beside him, however, he has to stop and restart his train of thoughts. Somehow, every time he checks if Stan had woken up, he seems to have moved closer. Slowly, how far he gets into his thoughts gets shorter and shorter, what with Stan inching closer to him with every second. Bill decides to go to sleep when both a leg and an arm (from Stan) are draped over him. 

He forgets about it the next morning.

The rest of summer goes by without a hitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't judge me for the multiverse thing it's based off a real conversation i had with my friend ALSO a lot of u keep asking when they'll kiss and PLS IT'S REAL SOON TRUST ME STICK WITH ME!!!!! anyway ! hope u enjoyed that and leave a comment or kudos mayb ? thanks!
> 
> come say hi! i'm [@quipcrly](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com) on tumblr


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've never felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa i loved writing this chapter!! i had the idea in an uber and i wrote my favourite parts on the phone and i even had my friend reread and reread and give her comments until it was perfect. i hope ya'll enjoy it as much as i did writing it :">
> 
> aside from that, maybe some warning?? i know i've only ever vaguely mentioned sharon's bad parenting but this time it'll actually happen so if that's a trigger then just skip this whole thing ://

The first time his mom hits him is when they get his report card back. Bill was never too good at academics; he got by with consistent C’s and the usual B for english. His sophomore year, however, had taken a toll on him, especially considering he was distracted by anything a teenager chases after. 

He got home tired from school, and had wanted more than anything to take a nice long nap and to skip dinner while he's at it. But as he entered the house, there was his mom, sitting at the table, furiously looking at him.

"H-hey mom," he greets, curiosity getting the best of him. He’d of course want to know if this is about him or a bad day at work, so he’ll have to put up the right amount of defence for the matter. “What’s up?”

She throws the card at him, and immediately he’s confused. The C’s were always good enough for her. Though, he’s unsure if they were “good enough” or she’d never given a shit in his general direction. The first thing he sees as he pulls it up is an A in english, and he’s pretty surprised with himself. But surely that’s not what his mom is being pissy about.

He continues to pull the card out, and there’s a D on his math. He tries his best to keep his eyes low and to hide the grimace forming on his teeth.

He got an F on chemistry. He _knew_ he should’ve asked Audra for help when he had the chance. He could do better, he knows. His teacher always said everyone has an innate intelligence. Bill would really like some of that by now.

Bill slips the card back into the envelope and hands it back to his mom. She doesn’t take it, opting instead to continue glaring at him. He wants to cry on the spot. Today was tiring enough as it is. Failing a subject and a mother offering you no comfort, only a stone-cold stare and the figure of animosity is the last thing he needed. He knows there’s not much to this confrontation now. His mother never cared.

Though now there’s something burning in her eyes, nothing good, Bill supposes. There’s a certain level of fire he’s seen in people’s eyes. Passion, determination, anything to keep them trudging through the hardest of times. This was none of that. This dispelled the feeling of safety he’d usually have when his mother was just a bleak shadow in his life. This was ice-cold, instilling fear into his heart like a growing beast in the shadows. 

This is the shore pulling back for the tsunami. 

Whatever left unspoken between them will soon be left to the air, stuck to haunt this house like a ghost. He doesn’t feel too ready for this. He wants to run away, to wait out her storm, shield himself from the world until she’s back to her lifeless shell of a loving figure. So he does. All running away ever does, after all, is buy him more time to be okay. 

He’s wrong, however, when his mother clutches onto his arm firmly as he takes his first step away, her grip strengthened with her vice. He yelps in surprise, and at this point is too afraid to look her in the eyes. 

It burns. It’s something his mind immediately connects to being in imminent danger. There’s something about her skin on his that makes him want to throw up and wash it off until his skin is red and raw. He’s painfully reminded of how much his mother actually does for him, in terms of “motherly love.” Sharon had always been lacking in that certain department.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She hisses, and it’s as if her skin turned scaly and green and her limbs shrunk back into her torso. Her eyes are pitch black, her grip on Bill is now her whole self wrapped around him, torturing him. Suffocating him. He tries to escape, no, he _wants_ to escape, but the thoughts flooding his mind that his mother has turned cold-blooded because of how much she abhors her son is too much to bare. 

“Why d-do you care?” Bill whimpers, praying that she lets go, and they’ll forget about this, like they always do. His heart pumping in his chest and his fist clenching at his sides tell him that’s not going to happen. But then again, they always do, and now his mind is all over the place and he can’t see his mother anymore. She’s just a woman who had him and his brother. She’s just someone who never wanted him in particular.

“Is this all just a joke to you?” She asks, voice like venom and wrapping around Bill tighter, squeezing the tears out of his eyes and words he’ll never say out of his mouth. “Do you think all the money your dad and I spend on you is _nothing?_ ”

“L-let go,” he squeaks, shaking. There’s red crescent-shapes blooming on his palms by now and abstract purple near the bend of his elbow for the near future. He sees it. He’ll have to hide it. “Please, mom, I’m sorry.”

“What’s sorry going to do?” Bill is crying, by now. “What’s it going to do?” There’s nothing it can do, Bill knows. No amount of sorries can earn Bill an A. No amount of sorries can earn Bill his mother’s love. No amount of sorries can fix what she’s done to him. 

More like what she hasn’t done. All his scraped knees he’s had to patch up by himself and all the times he’s had to throw himself a decent party for one. He remembers when he’d stopped bothering, letting wounds get infected and letting birthdays pass by without so much as a store-bought cookie to celebrate himself.

There’s all the times she’s loved her wine and her rings and her hair more than she did him. There’s all the times he’s spent a little too much time with Georgie and she’d deemed Bill a virus. There’s all the times all he needed was a hug, a simple pat on a shoulder, a good morning, how are you doing? _There’s all the times all he needed was to be loved._ Where was she, when Bill needed a mother? Nowhere. 

And he’s had enough of his Nowhere Mother and her Nowhere Love.

“Shut up,” he spits. “W-why care now, of all times? Why the fuck w-would you only do shit like this when I f-fuck up?” 

His cheek burns. Somehow the sound reaches his ears a minute too late, of her hand across his face and the pink blooming on his cheek.

“Don’t you _dare_ speak to your mother that way.”

“You’re not my mom!” He screams, tears pouring down his face and his heart beating so fast he feels his world crumbling around his feet. She’s all he sees now, how unfamiliar her face is to him, how cold her figure is, _has been_ , all his life. “You were never my mom!”

“How the hell was I never your mom?!” She screams back, and this all seems immature, their little fight of theirs. How this was first about his grades and now her being a failure of a mother. “How was I never your mom?! I gave up everything to have you!”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you just give _me_ up, then?!” His voice cracks horrendously. “Because, obviously, you don’t fucking care about me at all! It doesn’t matter what you gave up to have a goddamn son you don’t even want, because we’re both losing here, Sharon! Just admit you never loved me at all and I’ll leave!”

She doesn’t say anything. That was more than enough of an answer for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :> good luck, Bill Denbrough.
> 
> thanks for reading ! leave kudos and comments? please?
> 
> come say hi! i'm [ @quipcrly](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com) on tumblr


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And if this is the last you see me in this light, I'm sorry, for I loved you too much and now this damage can't be undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy valentine's ! here's a gift from me to you UwU

He doesn’t take long to pack his things. He’s rotated the same five shirts and the same three pairs of pants for months now. He’s sure it won’t stop until he outgrows them all, anyway. He grabs his phone, the charger, his laptop. Through his steaming tears, he takes in everything at once. This will never be his room again. 

Sharon is screaming and throwing cheap vases in the master bedroom. There are little glimpses of what she’s saying, reaching through the walls and crawling into his ears. _Ingrate_. _Your fault. I wish I never had you._

He knows that. He has to, learning and learning the words and their shapes every day he’s lived. Sharon saying it out loud is too much for him. His heart breaks in two, and after years and years of fixing it again and again, perhaps this is the worst one. Some irreparable, buildings turned to dust and seas eating the land, kind of damage.

So what is he now? Grey smears, finger-paint oddities, red-streaked accidents that cover his portrait. He can never really be loved no matter how hard he tried, can he? 

He can’t. 

Bill wipes his tears quickly, afraid letting his heart break further in here would mean he gives in to pointlessness and he stays forever. He gets on his march to freedom, somewhere without a Nowhere Anyone. He wipes his tears, because tears are showing he cared. That he wanted what his mother refuses him. He can’t show her that. 

Showing he loved her in the first place meant admitting defeat.

A sudden voice makes him stop. “Billy?” It says, haunting him if he chooses to keep going. “Where are you going?”

“Georgie.” He turns around, tears dewing at his eyelashes again. “I c-can’t–I–t-to–I’m…” What to say, what to say. What can he possibly offer in this wreck of a home, when he himself has nothing? Forgiveness, when he himself deserves none? Solace, when he himself is given none? Love, when he himself can never grasp it as his, nor would anyone be willing to hand it to him in the first place?

“I’m sorry,” he sobs instead, unable to handle the face imprinted on Georgie, with the midnight black of fear taking over his eyes and shaking his whole being. “I h-have to go.”

“No you don’t,” the eight year-old whimpers. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m s-sorry, Georgie.” Bill steps forward and gives him a kiss. “It’s f-for the b-best.” He lifts his head and the midnight black starts pouring from Georgie’s eyes all crystal clear, his small hands gripping on Bill’s shirt so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Please don’t go,” Georgie sobs, faint wheezing distorting the edges of his voice. “Don’t leave me, Bill.”

Bill pries Georgie’s hands off his shirt, and the way the boy keeps his grip tight, how he comes back when Bill had already gotten one hand off, it stings his eyes and has needles in his head and Bill knows leaving Georgie would be the death of him. 

When he finally gets both Georgie off of him, his nails have dug into the boy’s skin, faint crescent holes dotting the sides of his fingers. Georgie doesn’t seem to care. Bill practically throws him off and bolts downstairs.

“Bill!” Georgie shrieks as he goes racing after Bill. “Don’t leave me! Please!” Bill is barely put together by the time he gets to the door.

But neither is Georgie.

The little boy runs into his arms and grips on to his shirt again, but it lacks the strength and determination of earlier. He falls to his knees, bringing Bill with him, and instead of begging, what escapes him instead is sharp gasps and the dreadful whistling of his wheezing. Without much thought, Bill reaches into Georgie’s pocket and hands him the inhaler.

He gets up and leaves.

* * *

 

“Bill?” 

Audra answered the door with as much surprise as there was concern on her face. With one glance she pulls him inside (with his bruised arm, and it took everything in Bill not to yelp). She makes him sit on the couch and upon lifting her hand, immediately yelps and apologises. She goes to the kitchen to get him an ice pack for his pinking skin.

When she comes back, holding ice wrapped in a towel, she lets Bill explain the tears on his face and the forming bruise on his arm. 

He can’t. 

There are too many tears that well up at the thought of actually thinking about it. They weigh his voice down like stone on paper, choking him more as he tries to breathe like normal.

When he gets himself to open his mouth and say the first word, Audra’s looking at him with her marble-grey eyes, curved in pity and understanding. “Later,” she whispers, and goes back to moving around the ice on his arm. 

His phone rings no two minutes later, and he assumes it’s Georgie begging him to come back, so he doesn’t answer.

Audra looks up at him the second time it rings, asking him if he had any plans on picking up. No, he shakes his head. He doesn’t. He doesn’t need to be reminded that he’d left behind his brother when he had fallen to his knees and become unable to breathe. He doesn’t need to be reminded that he’s being selfish, but then again he’s giving Sharon what she wants, a life without Bill, the American dream.

By the third ring they both ignore it, and Audra asks if he wants to have pizza delivered. He says no, because he still has to be polite even around his best friend.

“Too bad, because there’s no dinner and you had no choice, anyway,” she hums, trying to lighten up. 

There’s a fourth ring, and it wasn’t from Bill’s phone. Audra’s smile drops and she pulls hers out and shows the screen to Bill.

_Zack Denbrough_ , it read, flashing no picture. To Bill’s shaking head, Audra slowly taps the green button and puts it on speaker. Bill looks on in defeat.

“Hello?” She answers slowly, looking at Bill with wide eyes. “Yes, Mr. Denbrough?”

“Audra?” His dad’s panicked voice comes through the phone. “Audra, is Bill with you?”

“Uh,” she raises her eyebrow at Bill, who starts shaking his head harder, like he’s going to break his neck. “No, I haven’t seen him since I got off the bus. Why?”

Sharon’s shrill voice rings through the house and makes them both flinch. “Zack, for fuck’s sake, stop looking for him! Your _son_ is _dying_!”

“Jesus Christ,” Zack mutters. “If-if y– _when_ you see him, can you tell him we’re at the hospital? Something happened to Georgie.”

“Will do. Hope it’s nothing too bad, sir.”

There’s silence, and an ambulance rushes past Audra’s window. As soon as it’s gone, its wailing comes through the phone instead. “I hope so, too,” Zack says one last time, and the line goes dead.

Audra eyes the growing horror on Bill’s face and her eyebrows furrow. “Bill,” she says in a serious, warning voice. “What did you do?”

“I…” He can’t bring himself to say it. To admit it. To _accept_ it. He distinctly remembers what Sharon shouted. _Your son is dying_. Had Bill really caused that much of an earthquake? Had he really had that much power in just walking away? The thought both amuses and scares him. “I l-left him.”

The words has the broken parts of his heart crumble to dust. The tears climb out of his eyes again, and there is no room for anymore words he’d like to say. “I left h-him,” he repeats with a sob, like it’s all he can say, like it’s all he’s allowed to form. Audra drops her demeanour and rushes to embrace him.

“Don’t cry,” she shushes through his repeating sobs of _I left him_. Her hands brush through his hair and wipe his tears, and the ice pack is discarded on her lap, soaking her leggings with ice-cold water. “Bill, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I left him, Audra!” He sobs again, clinging on to her shoulders like Georgie had done a while ago. “I l-left–I–I…”

His nails dig into the fabric of her shirt, quite possibly into Audra, too. She peels off his hands with ease. His fingers curl to hide the slowly healing wounds of earlier, where blood spilled out of crescent pools on his palms. She sighs as she opens his fist.

“Bill,” she chastises. “I thought you were done with this.” He was. He really thought he was. The last time those shapes presented itself where they are was when Bill was twelve and trying to make sense of everything.

They present themselves now when he’s sixteen and failing to make sense of anything.

“I’m–I…I’m sss…sorry,” he breathes out, because that’s all he can offer now.

She coaxes his head into her lap with a sigh, running fingers through his hair like what he assumes a parent would do. “Settle down, okay?” She shushes, using her other hand to wipe his face with her thumb. 

“Audra?” 

“Yeah?”

“The ice is still o-on your lap.”

Audra laughs, and the sound is enough to make him smile. Here she is, first love, innocent like kindergarten, as senseless as children. He’s lucky she’s stuck all these years. Not as anyone he sees himself dating, but she’s in his future nonetheless. Upside-down and inside out, the world doesn’t make sense if there is no Audra and Bill.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You wanna maybe go to the hospital? I can call my dad to drive us there.”

“I-it’s fine,” Bill exhales, relaxing himself at Audra’s touch. “I don’t r-really want to have anything to do w-with them right now.” 

“If you say so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao . if u want smthn happier here's this (shameless self promo bc i rlly like this one) [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620112) i wrote and it's just . a lot better. pramis. 
> 
> leave comments and kudos! they're greatly appreciated and give me motivation :>
> 
> come say hi! I'm [quipcrly](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	25. Announcement noot noot

howdy ya'll :(( I don't like saying these words but I might have to take a long hiatus on this fic... don't get me wrong, I fully intend to finish it; I just felt I'd gotten lost along the way with all my ideas and lack of an outline. Also, I overestimated how much time I'd actually have once the school year was over, and I'd like to dedicate more time to my art in order to build a portfolio for career purposes. I'd also have to take review classes for college entrance exams and I might not be able to pay as much attention to this fic as I'd want to. I promise, I'll come back, when life is less busy and I have a good, solid idea of where I want this to go. Nevertheless, thank you for sticking with me for this long! I'm more than halfway done and I didn't even think I'll get past the second summer. I love you all <3

If you're looking for some stenbrough content though, visit my tumblr! it's [@quipcrly](http://quipcrly.tumblr.com/) and you will see my further descent into hell (and also I might post other stenbrough fics, so look out for those!)

Once again, thank you, and I'll see you very soon :>>

 

 


End file.
